Recoveries
by Ernil i Pheriannath
Summary: A series of one shots (and short stories) about Sherlock (and John's) recoveries from their escapades in stories 'It takes John Watson to save your life'. Hospital and home recoveries, lots of hurt/comfort and bromance, (no slash)
1. Awakening

**A/N: hey all, so here's my new venture, I have not stopped writing 'It takes John Watson to save your life' but this is a spin off from it all about the recoveries. The stories may just be one off chapters and others multiple you enjoy.**

 **First chapter, awakening in hospital after chapter one 'bothersome trees'.**

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 _Chapter 1 - Awakening_

John Watson stood at the foot of the hospital bed with his arms folded in discontent. He had been allowed to accompany his best friend in recovery after his surgery. Something told him that Mycroft Holmes has something to do with this, and although partly annoyed by big brother sticking his nose in again he was thankful to be here because Sherlock Holmes waking from major surgery never went well.

The detective was propped up slightly on the bed, his blackening eyes still restfully closed and an oxygen mask strapped to his face. John was expecting him to wake up any time. The anaesthetic infusions and drugs had been stopped not so long ago and going by the man's track record of drug use he would fight of their effects in no time. John pursed his lips in both annoyance and worry, narrowing his eyes as he watched Sherlock's hand twitch slightly, his pulse oxymeter clearly agitating him. His other hand was now snugly in a plaster cast; so much for just a sprained wrist. John sighed. The emergency doctors had been horrified but the categorical amount of blunt force trauma injuries, Sherlock must have taken quite a beating from the suspect before they both fell from the building. John shuddered visibly, why had he gone out on the case with without him?

The detective let out a weak cough from the bed followed by a low groan. His eyes flickered open then closed again quickly. His free hand grasped for the mask but missed by a mile. He was silent for a moment and his breathing evened out somewhat, head rolling a little to the side. The doctor watched him for some minutes.

"If you're waiting for me to leave so you can make your escape, you can think again." John stepped closer to the side of the bed, he had picked up enough deducing abilities from his best friend by now, "I know your not sleeping so you might as well open your eyes."

"How?" The younger man croaked, his eyes cracking open blearily, he quickly managed to pull the mask from his face letting it rest on his neck.

"I'm a doctor, I can tell when someone's pretending to sleep Sherlock, I'm not that much of an idiot."

"I wouldn't say that much." The detective coughed again, throat irritated by the recent breathing tube. He winced, his face screwing tightly into a grimace before he stifled another moan.

"Hurts does it?" John said harshly, "well that's what you get when you rupture your spleen, then have someone slice you open to repair it." He added.

Sherlock shot him a death glare, even in his drugged state it was one stare that no one wanted to be on the receiving end of, but the doctor shook it off like nothing. His own anger was seething internally.

"You're bloody lucky you didn't actually lose your spleen!" He cried, "they nearly had to remove it."

"Oh well, I'm sure I could have used it for an experiment, I need to look into the..."

"Sherlock!" John was trying to hold his fury back but it was proving more than a little difficult. "It's not a bloody game. Do you have any idea how close you were to dying!?" The last word broke slightly on his voice but his eyes gave a glare back to his friend.

"Well I didn't did I?" Sherlock smiled.

"You unbelievable bastard." John growled, rounding on the bed and placing two fisted hands onto the white covers, his face was filled with infuriation.

"You're unimpressed?" The detective replied plainly.

"Oh I'm more than unimpressed Sherlock, to say I was livid would be an understatement" John inhaled deeply, trying regain a little composure.

"I don't understand?" The detective furrowed his brows, "why would you be angry?" He braced his hand on the side of the bed and slowly tried to pull himself into a more upright position. But as his body bent a little he let out a choked and strangled howl. His breath hitched in agony.

"Don't do that." John said simply, the deep frown in his face softening, he pulled the oxygen mask up and replaced it over his friend mouth and nose. "Let me see about getting you some more pain relief."

"Why?" Came a muffled voice from beneath the plastic.

"Because despite being angry at you I still care." The doctor snapped, turning to leave, "don't you dare move a muscle." He skipped out the room in a flash, catching a nurse in the corridor outside and collaring her for a doctor. She went rushing off in search of one immediately.

When John hurried back inside the small private room he found the detective already with his bare feet half way to the floor, the pulse oximetry probe and oxygen mask discarded and the giving set to one infusion pump straining from the distance it was now having to stretch.

"What the fuck are you doing!" John was on his friend in a second. Sherlock already had his eyes tightly closed, he heaved in heavy breaths and with each exhale let out a strained moan of pain. The sound made the doctors heart break. "Lie back." He said firmly, grasping his friend's upper arms gently he tried to push the detective down but was met by shuddering resistance.

"Can't." Sherlock grunted, leaning some of his weight into his best friend. "Hurts John." He murmured meekly.

"Then hold tight for a second." John said sadly, "the doctor is on his way with something for the pain alright."

"No." the detective sounded like a child. "I don't want it." He gasped and shook a little and John held him steady as a wave of pain seemed to go through him making him cry out again.

"Tough, you're getting it." The doctor grimaced at his friend's agony, he retrieved the oxygen mask from the bed and gently replaced it yet again to its rightful spot. "I'm not having you like this."

"But... disappointed." Sherlock groaned into his friend's chest, he was now fully leaning on John for support, his good hand clinging tightly to the other man's clothes in desperation.

"What?" The doctor almost laughed, "Sherlock?" He was perplexed a little, "I'm not disappointed if you take drugs because you're in pain."

The younger man didn't answer, shuddering and clearly overtaken with pain he continued his weak whimpering with each exhale like a beaten dog. All John could do was hold still for the time being, he carefully wrapped his arms around his friend, mindful of the surgery site and potentially causing more agony to him. Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly, lines of pain surrounding them, his jaw clenched and unclenched against the pain.

"Just hang on a moment, won't be long I promise." John ran his hand through his best friend's unruly and knotted curls in a bid to comfort him.

It turned out to be more than a moment. It was well over five minutes before a doctor appeared through the door with a tray of medications and syringes in hand. The department was clearly stretched thin at this time of night, John looked at the clock on the wall which read 3.48am. He glanced down at the curls under his chin. Sherlock had either passed out or fallen asleep in his arms, which one John couldn't tell. The doctors own arms were beginning to shake from the strain of holding the lanky figure in position, too concerned that moving the detective would cause more pain and agony.

"What happened?" The young doctor asked as she drew up a vial of morphine and then another. She eyed the pair of them with curiosity, John knew they were about to become a topic of conversation over nurses station.

"He tried to get out of bed." John replied finally, feeling a little awkward with his friend's slumped figure in his arms.

"Well next time make sure he stays in bed." She berated.

John stifled a laugh at this but as his body gave a short jerk his friend moaned out in agony, body tensing, "sorry." He whispered.

The young doctor checked the detectives intravenous catheter which seemed to still be in situ despite the strain it was under. Slowly she injected the opioid into the line and John felt his friend's body begin to relax again, he took the opportunity to lower him back to the cot. Gently his head fell back against the pillow, blackened bruising stark against his pale skin.

"Stupid cock." John growled, pulling the lanky mans legs back up onto the bed before covering them with the blanket. He turned to the doctor. "Unless you want him doing that again then I suggest you don't just keep him well analgesed but sedated too for at least 24 hours, perhaps some midazolam added into the mix wouldn't go amiss."

The doctor didn't reply but simply bowed her head in agreement and left the room.

John slumped into the chair next to the bedside, spent. He had been waiting around for nearly five hours since they had arrived at the emergency department. Sherlock had been rushed off almost immediately for surgery upon arrival and John had had nothing left to do except wait around and worry. He had dared not leave for fear of the worst happening, he was a doctor and well aware of prognosis of internal bleeding, so fear had gripped him for hours while awaiting news. Now that Sherlock was in recovery the tension within him left a little, as did his energy it seems. He was glad to have his friend back awake again even if he was in a considerable amount of pain. Sherlock was alive, and to John this was first and foremost the most important thing.

"You're an absolute moron do you know that?" He turned to the sleeping detective, despite the many bruises littering his skin and multiple catheters and monitors his friend actually looked somewhat peaceful. "I really wish you were a little more thoughtful about what you get yourself into, or at least consider letting me know." He looked up to the monitors, happy to see the numbers green and within normal limits, for once the detective was recovering by the book.

Happy with Sherlock's perimeters John sat back letting his eyes slip closed, he was beyond exhausted.

He must have drifted off because the next thing he realised was he was being shaken gently awake by a familiar face.

"Bloody hell John have you been here all night?" Lestrade was bent over him. "Actually don't answer that, I know you have." He smiled sadly.

"Eh." The doctor blinked awake and looked around the room quickly re-orienting himself with his surroundings before letting his gaze fall back on his friend, still fast asleep it seemed. "I guess so." He stretched, "what's the time?"

"9.35am." Greg looked at his watch before offering John warm takeaway cup. "I brought you some coffee." He offered, "thought you might be here."

"Oh, thanks." The doctor took the beverage and cupped it in his palms, he stared at it.

"How's he doing?" The inspector looked on at the younger man covered by the blankets, the nurses had clearly been by to make him more comfortable. He was tucked into the covers

John rubbed his eyes and exhaled. "Ruptured spleen, they managed to repair it thank god." He took a long gulp of the coffee and relished in the caffeine and strong smell hitting his sinus's. "Fractured wrist too, even though he insisted just a sprain, cracked ribs, multiple contusions. Bloody cock." He swore, suddenly aware of the sedative infusing into the detectives IV line. "Thankfully they've sedated him for now, he's already tried to get out of bed once."

"Christ." Lestrade frowned, "when will he ever learn."

"How's the suspect?" John asked, raising from the chair with a groan, his muscles stiff and sore.

"Not good." Greg grimaced, "multiple injuries including a severe head injury, they're not even sure if he'll regain consciousness."

"Huh." The doctor swayed a little on the spot, his eyes drooping despite the coffee.

"Go home John." Lestrade could see the tiredness of the doctor. "Get some more sleep, have a shower and some food. I'll keep an eye on him."

"Sure?" John furrowed his brow and stared at the detective in the bed sleeping soundly, he was pretty happy that the man truly was sleeping this time, the trickle of drugs doing the job.

"Your a wreck mate," Greg replied, "honestly, I'll call you if there's any change, take a break."

John hesitated, suddenly feeling exhausted, a few hours sleeping in a chair had done nothing for his aching body. "Okay." He finally replied, "but I'll be back later, and you call me straight away if there's any change right."

"Of course." Lestrade settled himself into John's chair, setting down his own coffee and bag. "I promise, but please go home and get some rest."

The doctor relented, "thank you." He smiled, "I won't be long."


	2. Trivia

**A/N: I really should sleep but I'm really not tired, so I finished this instead. This relates to chapter two of 'it takes John Watson to save your life' - open fracture. I don't think all chapters will be this tame so please enjoy while you can because I'm certain things will get darker as time goes on. For non British readers 'the crystal maze' was an escape room game show on the TV in the early 90's which has just started to make a comeback here in the U.K. Anyway enjoy...**

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 _Chapter 2 - Trivia_

It was nearly 10 days following Sherlock's injuries that he was allowed home, complications with his fractured leg had delayed his discharge and this had not helped with his current mood. Now out of the stages of being doped up and allowed home meant the fun really was about to begin. The detective was currently perched on the sofa, his good leg flat on the floor and his cast one on a number of pillows John had set under the limb. He was picking absently at his stitches on his scalp.

"How many times," John looked up from the newspaper and sighed, "stop that, right now, they're not ready to come out."

"You said ten days."

"Yes, ten days without interference. Lucky for you, all you've done for the past ten days is pull them out or disrupt the wound, remember those few more stitches I had them put in last week." John scowled him but the detective didn't stop. "That's enough." He warned.

"I'm bored John." Sherlock bellowed, throwing his hands in the air, "I can't sit here for weeks on end, my brain will rot."

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Lestrade said he'd give me some case files?" The detective snorted, "I don't see any case files."

"He said he'll be over in the next day or two." John put down his paper, he was becoming irritated now. He knew all too well that Greg was sifting through the cases to give to Sherlock with great care. If there was any chance that there was a suspect at large the detective needed no excuses to leave the flat.

"I can't wait that long." He grumbled, swinging his leg down to the floor and making to get up.

"Eh, no. Don't do that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes which was quickly followed by a wince which he failed to hide.

"Here." John slammed the newspaper down on the coffee table in front of the detective, "do a bloody crossword and I'll get you some pain killers."

"What?" Sherlock looked perplexed, "I'm not a child!" He shouted after the doctor as he went in search of his friend's medications.

"Yeah you are."

The detective looked at the crossword on the open page and frowned, he'd show him just what kind of stupid idea giving him a puzzle was. Picking up the pen he began to read the clues.

John returned in a matter of minutes with the drugs, filling up a glass of water he came to sit by his friend.

"What sorcery is this?" Sherlock's moaned, "Mickey Mouse's pet dog!?"

John chuckled, reading the paper, "that's the simple clue you prune, I didn't have you for taking the easy way out."

Sherlock frowned and read across the page to the cryptic clues. "Hades rock!" He cried, perplexed. "No wonder you people are idiots, what trivial nonsense is this." He closed the paper with as much dramatics as closing a newspaper could be and scowled.

"Here." John held out two white pills in his hand. "Take these."

"No." The detective replied, pouting.

"I tell you what," John smirked, "you don't have to take them if you can complete that crossword." He pointed back to the metro paper sitting on the table. "Deal?"

"What kind of a bargain is that?"

"What do you mean, don't you think you can do it?" John challenged.

"Of course I can, I just don't want to." Sherlock folded his arms and a frown accompanied his pout. John brought the tablets forward and offered the glass of water. The detective curled his lip "Oh fine." He pulled the paper from the side and reopened it.

"Without google." John motioned for his friend's phone, "otherwise it's completely pointless."

"How is that fair?" The look of shock was now planted on his face.

"When Mrs H and I do it we don't need google, I expect someone like you with an IQ of 190 doesn't need the internet."

"191." He ground through his teeth, relenting his phone into John's hand.

"Thought that was Mycroft?" John was pushing it now.

"I'm the smart one." Sherlock shot back.

"We'll see." The doctor looked at his watch. "You have 30minutes, Mrs H only needs 20." He smirked.

John left his friend to it, he settled himself into his chair and set up his laptop, he needed to draft out their latest case for the blog. For 10 whole minutes he had silence, but silence is golden at 221B sometimes.

There was a long drawn out sign from the other side of the room and John's eyes slid sideways to glance at his flat mate. Sherlock's frown had deepened somewhat now and he was huffing silently. The doctor turned back to his laptop with a repressed grin, he would give him a bit longer.

It was a further 15 minutes later when Sherlock finally broke his silence. "Oh for Gods sake!" He shouted, the newspaper landed in a scrumpled heap in the middle of the floor.

"Giving up?" John offered before turning to see the enraged look on his friend's face, cheeks red with fury and the pen held fast in his hand.

"What kind of madness are you trying to have me do?" Sherlock dropped the pen to the table and before the doctor could move from his own spot he had risen and retrieved his crutches from beside the sofa.

"What are you doing now?"

"Going out." He cried, "I can't stand this... this lunacy." The detective pulled himself upright fully and placed his arms inside the crutches moving forwards. "Where are my shoes?"

"Your going nowhere Sherlock. Not until your cast is changed in a fortnight, there's no weight baring whatsoever until then, now sit down." John was unimpressed

"Shoes!" Sherlock shouted, "for god sake John, I'm not weight baring, see." He hopped across the living room with his aid and back again. "Where are my shoes?"

The doctor had now stood, he folded his arms with defiance. "We've confiscated them." He almost smiled but held it back, knowing better. "Only the left ones of course, there'd be little point in taking the right seeing as your foots twice the size it should be."

"What!?" The detective stood frozen on the spot, "have you lost your mind?"

"Actually it was Mrs Hudson's idea." He replied. "And if you manage it down the stairs you'll also find the front door locked, only Mrs H and I have the keys. Yes I know you can pick the lock but it might slow you down."

"What is this, the Crystal Maze?" He frowned.

"You know the Crystal Maze?" John actually started to chuckle.

"Of course I do." Sherlock hopped towards the stairs. "Now if you don't mind."

"You still need to take these." John was on him before he barely made it onto the landing, the two pills in his hand. "And you'll need your antibiotics too."

"I don't need them." The detective growled, "I'm not in pain. I need stimulation not sedation. I need a bloody case."

"If you don't sit still then I will actually sedate you. Get back inside." The older man was starting to lose his patience.

"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Wanna bet?" John folded his arms. "Don't push me Sherlock, I am a doctor and I will use whatever means necessary to keep you still if I need to. If you have to have another surgery on that leg then your risking losing the limb altogether, is that what you want?" He doctor gave a glare back to his friend and stood stone solid in the way of the stairway.

"Don't be so dramatic." The detective waved his hand, his brows softened and he sighed, trying the sympathy tactic. "I can't stay in the flat John, please. I'm going insane, I can feel my brain dibbling out of my ears."

The doctor exhaled. "Fine." He said finally. "I'll let you go out, but on one condition." He cocked one brow up. "First you have these and your antibiotics you need and then I'll find you a shoe, but only if I can come along too. And not far either. We're not going galavanting across half the city, you need to rest, you've only been home less than a day, so one destination and one only"

"Fine." Sherlock shot angrily, he was scowling like grumpy child, "give me the pills?"

"No, we're not going out until they've taken affect. I know your in pain, there's no point in hiding it. Get inside and sit and I'll make you some tea, then in half an hour you can go out. Deal."

Sherlock's lips curled but he didn't reply. He clicked his crutches on the floor and returned to the living room reluctantly. "I'm not in pain." He said finally as John began to boil the kettle preparing the drinks. As he lowered himself into his chair his foot jarred against the fireplace and he let out a stifled whimper.

"Not in pain huh?" John rolled his eyes, filling both mugs with water before heading to the stash of medications to count out Sherlock's array of pills to take. Three lots of antibiotic and two types pain killers had been prescribed. He collect the tablets into a small cup and finished making the drinks.

"Just a twinge." Sherlock said, his voice now waving very slightly.

"Hmm." The doctor was not convinced, the detective's toes were puffy and angry looking. "Put your leg up again would you, we need to get this swelling down."

Sherlock exhaled, clenching his jaw as he pulled his fractured leg up with effort placing it up onto the makeshift table John and made by the fireplace. "Yes, mother." He mumbled, taking the tea and sipping it.

"So where are we going?" John asked, handing the pills over one by one and watching intently as his friend swallowed them reluctantly.

"Bart's probably, hopefully Molly has some cadavers to play with" The younger man swallowed hard, "these are disgusting."

"Cadavers are not toys to chop up at your disposal Sherlock." John retorted, finally handing over the last pill.

"No, they are a wealth of information." The detective screwed his nose up at the taste of the tablet and downed a large gulp of his warm drink. "A map of the persons life, it doesn't just tell you the cause of death but everything in between. And besides they're dead so they don't care anymore."

John ignored the latter statement. "Yes, I did study medicine at university believe it or not." He said.

"Can we go out now?"

"No." John sighed, "need to wait for the painkillers to start working before we think about leaving, and I need to find you a shoe."

"And what exactly do you suppose I do while I wait?"

"Crossword?" John smirked.

Sherlock only glared and the doctor retreated the room before another word could be said.

When John returned several minutes later after retrieving a shoe from Mrs Hudson. He found the man back on his feet, or more accurately one foot, his crutches clicking as he pottered around the living room, rummaging through the papers on the table.

"Can you not just sit down for a moment?"

"What, why?" Sherlock stood on the spot, his cast leg raised slightly from the floor, he wobbled a little.

"Because if we're going out your going to get tired. Haven't been on crutches for a long period have you? It's bloody sore after a while."

"I'm not an invalid!" He barked. "I'm perfectly capable for looking after myself."

"Oh really?" The doctor folded his arms, "so you'll be just fine to dress yourself to go out then will you?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, a strange look crossed his face and he gave a little grimace as she shifted on his injured leg. "I do believe so." He said with some hesitation.

"Sure?" The doctor asked.

"In a minute." The detective turned away and pulled up John's laptop, quickly typing in his friend's password in a flash. "Hit and run." He exclaimed, "really John, I'm sure you can come up with something a little more inventive than that."

"It's a working title." John snatched the computer from his friend's grasp. "And that's also mine." He watched his friend waver on the spot. "For Pete's sake Sherlock, will you bloody sit down."

"Why? I'm tired of resting." The detective stepped forwards and stumbled slightly.

"For goodness sake." John saw his friend stumble again pointed back to the sofa.

"Sit down."

"No."

"Sit!" A firm command.

"No." he swayed a little.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, sit down right now before you fall down." Captain Watson bellowed now and this time the detective complied, hobbling to the sofa and easing himself down onto it.

"What's wrong with me?" The younger man looked at his hands which were now shaking ever so slightly.

John stepped closer "I slipped a sedative into your drink." He said simply.

"What!" Sherlock's eyes shot up to meet his friends, shock apparent in them. "You did what?"

"You really think I'd let you out the day after getting home from hospital. Are you mental?" John was unimpressed, his lips set in a tight line of displeasure. "Sorry..." he added.

"Your insane." The detective tried to rise from his seated position but his body didn't comply.

"No, I'm just your doctor and friend, concerned about your wellbeing."

"I am fine." Sherlock growled, he lent back heavily against the back of the sofa, screwing his eyes closed then open again. "This is a violation John." His voice slurred just a little. "You can't do this."

"Oh I can." John stepped forwards again. "In fact, Mycroft has agreed to it."

"Meddling brother." He moaned.

"Lie back." The doctor pushed his friend's body back into the sofa. "And get your leg up." He gently pulled Sherlock's cast up and back onto the pillows, his friend gave a light groan.

"This is madness John, I'm just fine."

"Of course you are. Just got home from hospital from severe concussion, contusions to your upper body, compound fracture to your tibia and fibula, plated then a post operative abscess, septicaemia, two days in Intensive care and still severe swelling to your foot which I'm not overly happy with. So yeah, your doing just great."

"Don't be so dramatic." Sherlock waved off his friend half heartedly, his eyes drooped but he fought hard to open them more. "You can't do this."

"I'll do whatever's necessary to keep to your still and let your body heal." John watched him fight hard to stay conscious but slowly the detectives body began to relax.

"Boring." The younger man said finally after a long pregnant pause.

"Good." John replied defiantly watching Sherlock's eyes flutter open and closed sporadically. "Go to sleep you twit."

"Not tired..." Sherlock yawned, and his eyes slipped closed, his chin falling to his chest he finally gave into a deep slumber.

"Whatever." The doctor smiled. "You cock." He swore.

* * *

 _Im not certain an oral sedative would actually kick in this quick to be honest, so some of this is artistic licence I'm afraid. It's more likely to take 30-60 minutes, but I'm guessing Sherlock is probably sicker than he's letting on._


	3. Early discharge

**A/N: many thanks to all followers of this story verse. Thank you so much! This one is the recovery sequel to chapter three - cranial nerves. Trigger warning for anyone who suffers sensory overload of similar issues. Some angst abound but enjoy none the less.**

* * *

 _Chapter 3 - early discharge._

The detective had spent over a week since the injury to his skull bed bound, only rising to use the toilet or when his mind could no longer stand being idle. Doctor Watson was at first concerned for his friend's wellbeing, Sherlock's gait was wobbly and disoriented and it often took several attempts to make him remember the reason for his hospital stay. But since yesterday the blogger had considered his friend had turned a corner. Sherlock's motor functions had improved, though still unsteady he was able to hold a cup to his mouth without spilling the contents and walk more than a few yards unaided. He was recalling dates and names and answering questions with a healthy dose of sarcasm in a typical Sherlockian fashion which only proved to amuse John and clearly agitate hospital staff, he was on the mend so it seemed. John had had words with the neurologist the following morning and came to the agreed conclusion that Sherlock would be safe to be discharged later that day providing he was monitored closely at home and visited all his outpatient appointments. It was the best news that both of them had had in well over a week and despite being offered assistance by his brother the detective had preferred the idea of a lift to Baker Street from DI Lestrade.

"Ready?" John parked the wheelchair next to the bed and watched as his friend gingerly put on his famous coat. Mycroft must have had another tailor made as the original had been badly damaged during the explosion, John wondered what the British Government couldn't conjure up at will. The doctor watched carefully as the detective winced slightly when the collar came into contact with the base of his skull and the light dressings still applied around the circumference of his cranium.

"When's your next lot of painkillers due?" He asked kindly, putting a hand out to steady his flat mate as he wobbled on his feet.

"I'm not a bloody invalid!" Sherlock snarled, his face paled slightly then and he sat abruptly in the chair provided, giving in to John's help. "Couple of hours." He replied after a pause, much softer and clearly regretting the outburst, John suspected more due to the physical pain it inflicted than the hurtful response it caused.

"Lets get out of here you idiot, Greg is waiting by the exit for us."

"Who's Greg?" Sherlock took a long and steady inhale which did not go unnoticed.

John could only smirk. He wished he knew the reason why Sherlock either purposely got the DI's name wrong or truly couldn't remember it, a slight pang of worry actually came over him about it but he swept it away quickly. He retrieved his friend's bag of belongings from the bedside cupboard, slinging it over his shoulder he pushed the detective out the ward and towards the exit.

By the time they reached the ground floor and finally almost out the building John stopped the wheelchair and rounded on his friend. Sherlock had becoming increasingly quiet on their trip across the hospital and the doctor had noticed not twice but three times his friend had winced at an unknown pain. "Are you sure your ok?"

"Hmmm?" The detective looked up from his lap and winced again from the movement.

"You're in pain." The doctor said quickly, "do you want another dose of injectable, you are coming off the analgesia perhaps a little too quick?"

"Of course I'm in pain." Sherlock moaned, bringing a palm up to rub one of his eyes, "last week, or was it the week before?... a bomber tried to blow me up and succeeded in stoving my skull in so I expect I am painful yes."

John folded his arms and frowned deeply. "Do I need to pick you something stronger up from the pharmacy before we leave?"

"No." the detective waved a hand out dismissively, "I want to go home, please."

The blogger tapped his feet in frustration and took one hard look at his friend, he did seem a little green around the gills, and the long slow breaths told him that the detective was not only in pain but likely fighting off nausea. "Do I need to call a doctor?"

"You are my doctor." Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled. "Please, it's too loud and noisy here, lets go." He cried weakly.

John's mouth turned downwards sadly at his friend's vulnerable state. "Okay." He answered slowly, "but if your no better after your meds I'm collecting something stronger."

"Fine.." another wave of the hand.

Within a few moments they both made it to the front entrance of the hospital, the long evening rays filtered through the doorway and Sherlock moaned out as his face came into contact with the sunlight.

"Still on the cancer sticks Graham." The detective exclaimed as they rounded the corner and practically bowled Greg over in the process. The lit cigarette fell from his grasp and skittered across the pavement.

"You can talk?" Lestrade stamped on the fag and smiled sadly, Sherlock had not yet opened his eyes, the sun painfully bright even behind his closed lids, sending shots of agony down his optic nerves.

"Great to see you on the mend mate." Greg added then, fishing for his car keys.

"The feelings not mutual." The detective grumbled. "Can we go now?" He pulled a hand over his eyes to shield them from the light further.

"Right over here." The inspector pointed to his BMW parked across the roadway behind the ambulance bays. He the lead the way down the path.

By the time they reached the car Sherlock was deadly silent, his hand still firmly clasped across his face despite now being out the direct sun. The doctor thought that his friend had paled somewhat more, if at all possible. The idea of discharge was beginning to become less of a good idea in his mind.

"Sherlock?" John asked, placing the wheelchair brake on as he parked his friend next to the passenger door opening it. "Hey, what is it?"

"Headache." He murmured, "too bright."

"Right then" the doctor sighed, he was well aware of Sherlock's tendency for sensory overload from time to time, and he could deal with that, they had before and they would again. Considering the likelihood of his friend's unbearable migraine it wasn't surprising he was finding the short trip out all too much. Add to that the come down from the concoctions of drugs he had been on, the detective probably felt rotten. "In the car." He said quickly opening the door and ushering his friend to get in. The sooner they were at Baker Street the better, he could control the noise and light levels there. Sherlock stood with a slight sway and John grabbed his arm to steady him. "Alright?"

"Never... better." A breathless response.

John doubted his friend's statement and watched as sudden noise caused Sherlock to jump and a slight tremble passed over his body. There was a drunk patient creating a ruckus across the road cursing to a security guard at clearly being thrown out of the emergency department. As every shout echoed across the courtyard a visible twitch passed through the detective. The man's eyes screwed shut, lines etching around their edges visibly, his brow furrowed tightly and he groaned.

"Sherlock." John grabbed his friend's shoulders then, seeing him sway slightly more. "Hey look at me." He said quickly, knowing the warning signs of an impending meltdown. Despite never discussing with his friend John knew all too well the likelihood the detective had Asperger's syndrome, he ticked all the right boxes for the symptoms, difficulties in social interactions, repetitive patterns and obsessive behaviours, sensory input issues, but John never spoke of it. By now Greg was hovering behind the detective, the look of alarm on his face.

"We need to get him in the car, right now." The doctor cried, pointing to the back seat, "help me would you."

Greg pulled the wheelchair away, coming up to grasp the detective by the arm while John held him fast with the other as he swayed slightly.

"Steady mate." Lestrade whispered, "we've got you."

Sherlock let out a incomprehensible noise, his trembling hands came up to his face and he rubbed at his ears. "Shut up, shut up." He grumbled.

The inspector gave a sideways glance but John ignored it. "In the car Sherlock, it's alright, just get in the car and we can sit quietly." The doctor tried to guide his friend forwards but failed.

It was then two things happened at once. An ambulance suddenly came tearing around the corner it's sirens blaring madly and the detective let out a shout of pain, his knees buckling in an instant. Greg and John guided him down. Tears sprang from Sherlock's eyes, he squeezed them tightly shut grimacing at the deafening sounds around them. His shaking hands came to rest on his ears and he whimpered uselessly.

"Easy."

"Shit." They both said in unison, holding one arm each the detective was a limp puppet between them.

"Help me..." John tried to haul his friend up and with Greg's help they managed to manhandle the lanky figure forwards. Sherlock's feet dragged uselessly behind him as they somehow pulled him round and eased him as gently as they could into the backseat of the BMW. He was hyperventilating now, great lungful of air were sucking in and out making awful gasping croaks.

"Christ." Greg cried, looking to John for guidance.

"Take the wheelchair back." The doctor pointed, "just give us a second."

The DI nodded silently, quickly retrieving the chair and heading back towards the hospital. He glanced back anxiously, unsure that perhaps John meant he should get a doctor for assistance.

John did not look back, he had his eyes fixed on his best friend's form. Sherlock was now shaking from head to toe, his hands clasp tightly over his ears he let out a pitiful whimper between the gasping breaths.

"Sherlock." The doctor knew that touching his friend was risky, especially since everything else was overwhelming to him, a simple, even gentle touch could easily send him spiralling into a worse state. "Listen to me ok." He said firmly but calmly. "I'm going to touch you, is that okay?"

The detective did not respond and John felt himself begin to worry further, he needed to get his friend grounded and calmed down. Carefully and very delicately he clasped his hands around Sherlock's boney wrists, well and truly ready for a sudden outburst. But none came. Nothing but a sudden hitching breath responded to his touch.

"Sherlock." He said again, a little louder this time. "You need to calm down ok, can you try to take some slow steady breaths. Copy me, in... out." John accentuated his inhales and exhales but his friend did not respond. "Hey, are you in there?"

A sob escaped the detectives throat, catching and then causing him to cough. It must have been agony as with each ragged inhale and choke he winced and moaned out, his head clearly causing more pain than he had been letting on earlier. More tears streamed down his pale cheeks.

"Right, that's it." John had had enough, he had talked and calmed Sherlock through an episode like this before, but that time he wasn't recovering from a traumatic brain injury. He suspected the pain from the fracture coupled with the brain trauma had exacerbated his synesthesia ten fold, he needed pain relief first and foremost, then perhaps, John thought sadly, sedation. But he hope it wouldn't come to that.

By now Lestrade had returned, John could see him hovering uncomfortably in his periphery, and finally he pulled his gaze away from his flat mate to address the man. "Get back inside and locate the neurologist, Doctor Walters. Tell her I need a dose of injectable oxycodone down here asap, he's in some serious pain."

"Shouldn't we just take him back in?" Greg asked.

"No, we can't move him now." The doctor said sadly, "I don't think he'd take a move from the car without making him worse."

"Alright." The DI was clearly shaken by the detectives state of health but tried to hide it. He quickly rushed off back into the building at a sprint.

"We're going to get you something for the pain." John soothed, "just take it easy, try and get these breaths a little slower for me?"

Sherlock inhaled a little slower, his breath quivering in time with his muscle tremors.

"That's it. Nice and steady." The doctor pulled softly at his friend's wrists, succeeding in pulled his hands from his ears. The detective's head dropped down and he grunted. And then just as his breathing seemed to calm a police car came hurling around the corner, siren in tow.

It was one step forward and about three steps back. If John didn't know any better he would have described his friend was practically seizing but he knew he wasn't, or at least hoped he wasn't.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, it alright." The pain must have been unbearable. The detectives hands were back up on his head, now clutching at the base of his skull while his chin rested on his sternum. His breaths again short, sharp and useless and a number of horrible moans came from deep in his chest.

As the shaking seemed to abate slightly and after what seemed like forever another figure made it into the doctors vision. A paramedic, clearly on his way back out on shift. He was standing a mere meter off them, medical bag in toe. "Are you alright? Can I help?" He asked, a little too loud. The voice made the detective whimper yet again.

"He's having sensory overload, secondary to severe head pain from a trauma last week. Have you kit for an IV cannula?"

The EMT was clearly taken aback. "I'm his doctor, it's alright, I know how to sort this." John said both determinedly and assertively. "Have you?"

"Shouldn't we get him inside?"

"No." He shot.

"Perhaps I can get the emergency docs to bring him out some ketamine?"

"No." the doctor replied even quicker. Ketamine was certainly not the answer, mixing Sherlock with this drug was not something he was willing to see again. "Please," he paused, taking a breath, "the IV, if you would."

The medic hesitated somewhat but finally he gave in, undoing his bag and passing the kit over to the doctor. "Anything else I can do to help?"

"See if you can get some Chlorzoxazone, I might need it in conjunction with the analgesia on the way."

As the paramedic left for his job John whispered to his friend "Alright Sherlock, you need to try and stay as still as you can." He bit his lip at the words he had just said to the trembling man. Sherlock's eyes were now open to slits, but his pupils were blown and he was clearly not focused on a thing before him.

The doctor gently pulled one of his friend's hands towards himself, now clambering into the car too, he pushed the front seat back and perched himself before the detective. Sherlock's hand pulled tightly into a fist, crushing the doctors fingers between them, John could only bite back the curse from the iron grip.

"Easy." The doctor pried his hand out from the grip but not letting go of the appendage. "This is going to be uncomfortable, I'm sorry." He sighed, wishing his friend would just calm down just a little. Sherlock was struggling, his breaths still hitched and short, shoulders shaking yet somehow he was managing to hold out his hand as John swabbed it with surgical spirit. A small part of the detective was clearly still functioning, and the doctor took this as a positive.

"Sorry, small scratch." John picked the least bruised vein he could find across the patchwork of purple on the back of the detectives hand and plunged the needle in both forcefully but swiftly to secure the line. He regretted the move instantly when his friend whined out in response. "I'm so sorry, but you need this."

John secured the cannula with the precision of a seasoned doctor, within moments the plaster was on and connector flushed and in place. He allowed the man to pull his arm back towards himself, this time wrapping it around his middle. Abdominal pain, John frowned, it was highly likely. Where the hell was Greg he thought quickly. He realised he was being slightly unreasonable considering the neurology department was the other side of the building let alone the time it took to locate the doctor and then the drug which was a classified one in need of proper protocols to dispense. He exhaled, they would have to sit tight for the time being.

Quickly he pulled the passenger door closed in the hope that it would block out some degree of the commotion outside. Although done as noise free as possible the movement caused the detective to flinch back.

"It's okay, just... " John didn't really know what to say to his friend, asking him to calm down was the last thing he needed. "Your overheating mate, let's get your coat off?" Sherlock's cheeks were already flushing with a tinge of pink and a light sheen of sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead.

John tugged gently at the belstaff sleeves but his friend reeled backwards dramatically, hitting his dressings ever so slightly on the headrest he let out a cry. The doctor watched him take several hitching and moaning breaths before turning sideways and vomiting into the footwell. John grimaced himself, he'd have to pay Greg for a valet of his poor car, he would not be impressed.

"It's alright. Just focus on me ok." The blogger took a long deep breath himself, feeling the worry gripping his chest tightly, help was coming, they just had to sit tight. "Sherlock listen to me carefully." He grasped his best friend's hands in his own softly and brought the man back up to a sitting position. "Try and take some long slow breaths for me." He soothed. If the detective had been in the right mind he would have cursed John for his almost patronising tone. "Come on. You can do this. Pain relief is coming I promise but you need to try."

Sherlock pulled a shaking and long inhale through his nose, he frowned and John wondered what the scents around him were doing to his overactive mind right now.

"That's better." The doctor gave a slight smile, "you can do this."

The detectives hands balled into fists, taking up John's sleeves into them, he gripped them tightly. "John?" He croaked finally, lids opening fully now to gaze at his friend.

"Yes, I'm here."

The look in the detectives bewildered face almost broke the doctor. His eyes were wide and terrified, tears collecting in them but not escaping, just blurring his already hazy vision. Confusion was sown into his furrowed and deepened brows and his lower lip wobbled ever so slightly. Sherlock regarded the car then, trying to clearly understand where he was.

"Greg's car." John offered. "On the way out of hospital, you took a bit of a turn, I suspect due to your clearly unbearable migraine you're experiencing right now."

"Right." The younger mans voice still shook a little and he screwed his face tight in a grimace, now he remembered.

"It's okay." The doctor soothed in a whisper, his own voice catching in his throat. "Painkillers are coming, and you've got an IV so you can have them straight off the needle."

"Oh." Sherlock groaned when he discovered the line in the back of his hand, he was tired of being a pincushion over the past 10 days.

John looked sadly at his best friend, he felt at a loss, useless and lost for words momentarily. Even though he hated the disorientation it was the pain was what the doctor could not stand, the pale shade of grey the detectives skin had become and the tell tale lines carved deeply in his skin told a story of agony. This was something John could fix he thought.

It was merely moments later that the passenger door opened and a very flustered and breathless Lestrade stood panting on the pavement. The consultant was behind him holding a small kidney dish with drugs and syringes.

Sherlock snapped his eyes shut at the light which filtered into his vision angrily and turned away with a stifled cry.

"What's happening?" Doctor Walters stepped forwards with concern.

"Don't touch him!" John shot quickly before the young lady could reach his friend. "He's experiencing sensory overload, it's not the first time, but his head must be agony as he's actually showing pain outwardly. I can deal with this better back at Baker Street but he needs pain killers now. Strong ones." He added.

"Okay." The consultant had learned over the past week to trust Doctor Watson's judgement on the lanky detectives health. There had been more than one occasion where Sherlock had refused any interventions or procedures unless John undertook them or at the very least was available at hand for advice. Coupling this to the strong words Mycroft Holmes had had with the medical team John had been allowed more than a little leeway when it came to Sherlock's care and medical management. "Alright," she continued. "I brought the oxycodone, do you want me to go and dispense some more for home?"

"Please." John accepted the vial and syringe, drawing up a large dosage before removing the excess air bubbles. He connected the end onto the line without the need to touch his friend's still shaking hand. "Sherlock." He addressed him, "I'm going to give you something for the pain, you might get a bit drowsy okay, the medic is coming back for something to help you sleep in a bit too."

The detective said nothing and John took that as an acceptance, slowing beginning to infuse the opioid medication through his best friend's cannula and into his veins. Sherlock let out a slight whimper before his body began to relax and John guided him so he rested backward in the seat. The man's eyes rolled and then closed and he let out a long slow and even breath before clearly losing consciousness.

"Thank Christ." Greg drew a hand across his face in relief. "I don't think I could stand watching him like that for another second."

The blogger did not answer, he handed the empty needle and syringe back to the doctor and checked the detectives vitals. Now relaxed and pulse steady he was happy the man was just exhausted.

John sat back with relief, allowing the panic he had felt for the past few minutes wash over him, it made him feel a little lightheaded. "Once the doctor is back with the prescription and the medic with that sedative I was to get out of here. We have an hour or two but I want to get him settled before he really starts to come round, that way I can sedate him at home if I need to." John was allowing himself to switch into his full doctor mode. Patient pain relief and rest a priority right now.

"Righty 'O'" the inspector nodded.

"And I need to pay for a valet on your car I'm afraid." The doctor said apologetically.

Lestrade parked himself in the drivers seat ready to go, he turned to look at the mess in the back and waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, it's not the first time he's upchucked in my car."

John grimaced at the statement and chose to ignore it.

It was a good fifteen minutes before the medications were delivered to them and both the inspector and the doctor felt like a pair of drug addicts trading through car windows as the bags of vials and syringes were handed to them. Sherlock slumbered on obvious to the situation, he would have had a few comments to make about the whole thing had he been conscious.

"Lets go." John finally said once the meds had been checked. He pulled the seatbelt over his friend and then settled himself next to the detective, checking his pulse again and remaining happy with his state so far.

Greg stepped his foot on the gas and turned the key, he glanced in the rear mirror at John's scrutinising visual checks over the unconscious passenger. "He's lucky to have you, you know?' He pulled out the parking space and into the road.

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Trust me mate, he was a wreck before you turned up, I'm glad you're here." The inspector said sadly.

"Me too." John replied, "me too."


	4. The talk

**A/N: After his near cardiac arrest Sherlock wakes in hospital and John has a few choice words for him. Correlates to chapter 4: shocked from 'It takes John Watson to save your life.'**

 **TRIGGER WARNING - for talk of suicide and drugs. Trust me, I take neither lightly and both subjects are close to my heart. (And I don't think drug users are ever the scum of the earth to clarify).**

 **Please be suitably warned and skip this chapter if this may trigger. If not, enjoy the feels.**

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Chapter 4: The talk

It was only when the day was over and Sherlock was now out of immediate danger of complete cardiac arrest that John finally felt the effects of exactly what had happened to his friend. Watching from the bedside he felt shaky, the soft but noticeable tremors ran through almost every muscle in his body, it made him feel weak and dizzy. The detective had woken once from his slumber but had slipped back into oblivion for the time being. It had been many hours since the man's collapse at the crime scene. He was now breathing for himself and his heart was maintaining a steady and rhythmical beat, the ECG machine sent out a slow set of beeps into the small private hospital room, and it helped to calm the doctors shredded nerves.

"Has he always been like this?" He finally says looking at the detective inspector.

Lestrade was standing at the foot of the detectives bed, downing a rather large cup of coffee, he grimaces at the bitter taste. "Always been like what?"

"This reckless?" John asked.

"Oh yeah." Greg's face turns into a slight frown. "The day I first saw him he was scaling the buildings by Canary Wharf."

"Haha." John chuckled lightly. "Typical. I wouldn't expect any less. The first suspect chase we went on together he had me jumping rooftops." His face changed and voice lowered slightly, "how did he come to work for you?"

"It's a long story." Lestrade's eyes narrowed as he thought back to the times before John. "Let's just say his brother had a bit to do with it, and my dwindling career at the time. We hoped the crime solving would keep him on the straight and narrow."

"Away from the drugs?"

"Yeah." Greg looked to his feet. "Seems you're the only one who can help with that."

"Me?"

"Well since you've been here he hasn't touched the stuff." The inspector downed his last swig of lukewarm drink and tossed it into the bin.

"Are you sure?" John rose from his feet as Lestrade began to zip his coat up, clearing making for the exit soon.

"Certain." The inspector straightened up. "You never saw him before did you?" His face darkened, "trust me, you don't."

John only frowned in response, perhaps another time he would learn more about Sherlock from before, but it didn't sound like a story for today.

Greg took his leave, asking that the doctor call him if there was any change or he needed anything before muttering about his pile of paperwork he needed to get back to. John watched him leave sadly, turning back to the bed before him and sitting in the uncomfortable hospital issue chair. He watched his friend's breathing for sometime, finally coming to the conclusion that he was certain the man was actually asleep. There had been many an occasion where Sherlock had framed sleeping just to listen to conversation, but the younger man's breathing rate and rhythm told him that he was out for the count.

John tried to read the newspaper, but the haunting face of Lestrade minutes earlier stuck in his memory, could this genius have been in such a bad place before? He couldn't imagine the man high as kite in some crack house shooting up with the scum of the earth. An involuntary shiver ran through his body. The events of earlier were catching up with him.

The doctor pulled down an empty cup from the bedside table and filled it with fresh water before taking a long slow gulp, the cool water felt calming somehow. It was as if there were several emotions trying to muscle their way into his consciousness. First and foremost anger at both himself for not noticing the signs earlier of an impending collapse of his friend and secondly for the detectives stupidity. Then guilt for feeling this way and sadness at what they had just been through. Why did Sherlock have to be so reckless, what the hell was wrong with him!?

That would be anger again.

"Dick." He growled. "Bloody moron!" He slammed the small cup down onto the side with a little too much force and the lanky figure in the bed jolted at the sound.

"John?" Sherlock's eyes opened blearily.

"Yes it's me, of course it's me." The doctor replied in a short clipped tone.

"Hmm." The detective stretched slightly and winced.

"Sore are you?" He regrets the venomous words instantly.

"Seems like 240 volts hurts quite a bit." The younger man groans.

"You think?" John shoots back.

"Do I hear a hint of anger in that voice?" Sherlock let's out a long breath and then pulls the controls the bed up into his grasp, pressing the button to raise himself up.

"Too right I'm angry." The doctor can't help it, the anger is surging so strongly beneath the surface he starts to shake more. "What the bloody hell were you thinking!"

"Are we still on this?" The detective rolled his eyes, "I solved the case didn't I?" He cried. "What seems to be the problem?"

"What's..." John's fists ball tightly, his arms tensing, he would not hit a man in a hospital bed, but Sherlock was sure pushing it and he might just cross that line in a minute. "What's the problem?" He stood, grinding his teeth together. "What do you think!?" His voice was rising in tone and volume.

"My heart skipped into an irregular beat, I can hardly be to blamed for my own transport, it can be so inconsiderate sometimes." Sherlock regarded the two lines of fluids flowing into his veins and squinted at the bags to decipher their contents. "Huh, so it can't function without lidocaine, how dull."

It was in that moment that all anger drained from John, and he looked sadly to his best friend. "That's all your body is to you isn't it? Just a vessel."

Sherlock frowned back and blinked several times, trying to work out what he was saying. "Well, yes. Is that not what this is?" He pointed aptly at himself. "The body is nothing more than the transportation of our brain? What would be the point of me without my great mind, I might as well be dead."

"Sherlock?" John sat abruptly, worry over the words making him feel weak again, "without your body you would be dead, you can't have one without the other."

"Suppose not."

"What makes you think you can abuse yours so readily without care?" The doctor bit his lip, wishing for a moment he hadn't said that.

"I don't." Sherlock pulls a face which can only be described as a cross between confused and exasperated. "I solved the case, granted a small setback but I'm alive aren't I?"

"Only because we shocked your heart back into rhythm." The doctor lets the momentary thought shake his system, he pushes down the impending bile in his throat and takes a slow calm breath before speaking. "If we hadn't called for an ambulance and defibrillated you Molly would have you on a slab by now, how can you be so nonchalant about this?"

"Well that's why I've got you there isn't it, to stop that from happening." The detective smiles, "I suppose I should thank you."

"I don't want thanking!" John snarls, the anger ascending before falling again. He takes another inhale and exhales very slowly as to steady his compounding emotions. He was never good at situations like this.

A pregnant pause came over the room before he finally managed to say it. "Sherlock do you want to die?"

"What?"

"I mean, are you slowly trying to kill yourself, like commit suicide?" John's heart speeds up in panic, that was not how he wanted to put it, but perhaps the detective would understand it more if he was frank about the subject.

There's another pause and this does nothing but heighten he doctors anxiety further, if his friend was hesitating then it meant he was at least unsure on the answer, and this sent John's panic spiralling through his system, his stomach cramping in worry.

Sherlock finally answers. "John, what is this? Some sort of psychiatric assessment? Because I assure you, you are certainly not trained for that type of..."

From this sentence the doctor realises that his friend hasn't even answered the question at all. "Well?" He interrupts. "What is it?"

"What?"

John huffs, for all his intellect Sherlock Holmes can sometimes be so dim. "Well what's your answer?"

"What was the question?"

Now John is really panicking. He might not be a psychiatrist but from experience he knows that if someone is avoiding answering a question means that they will either lie or try to avoid it altogether, either of these made the doctor want to vomit at the thought.

"Sherlock?" He says slowly and in a measured breath.

"Yes John." The detective actually looks tired now.

The doctor thinks twice about asking again but bites the bullet anyway. "Do you want to die?" He finally says.

"No." this time a very quick answer, not that this makes him feel any better.

"Are you sure?" John continues, "ever since I've known you all you seem to have done is throw yourself into every possible danger imaginable, god knows what you've been doing without me knowing too." He rubs a hand across his eyes and sighs. "Dear God, how can I be so stupid." He whispers to himself.

"Why are we even talking about this? The detective actually looks more bewildered now.

"Because it's important." John replies. "Jesus Sherlock, you're not invulnerable."

"Is it?"

"Yes." The doctor can feel himself going over a number of scenarios where his friend had put himself in harms way without a second thought. He tries to push back the impending thoughts but ends up voicing them instead. "What happens if I'm not there one day? What happens if a murderer turns on you and stabs you in the heart or you break your neck throwing yourself recklessly into the path of a car whilst giving chase?"

"Then the royal society will enjoy the use of my body for science." Sherlock says with certainty. "What does it matter?"

"You matter!" John blurts out. "For goodness sake, how can you not understand that?"

"Sentiment." The detective grumbles, "that's all this is."

"Too right that's what this is, you cock." The doctor growls back in response. "And I'm not the only one who is sentimental about you mate." He shakes his head, "Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft! What exactly would they do if you died?"

"Get on with their lives." Sherlock had now changed his tone, agitation becoming evident. "The world doesn't stop when someone dies, people die every day, or have you forgotten."

"It stops for some people..." John trials off.

"Emotion." Sherlock snarls. "Useless compounding thoughts, clouds a persons intelligence, not worth my time." He flaps a hand out as if to brush off the thought.

"Emotion isn't weakness." The doctor replies. "It means someone cares."

The detective sniggers in reply, grinning like a child. This only angers his friend.

"This isn't funny." John stands up, he's had enough, he points angrily towards the doorway. "There are people out there who care about you!" For a moment he thinks that perhaps this is a bit too much but carries on. "I'll be damned if I'll let you recklessly kill yourself with no regard for anyone else, do you have any idea what your death would do to them? What it would do to me?!"

Bingo.

Sherlock's face drops suddenly and he is silent.

"No smart comeback?" John asks, raising his brows, "got nothing to say to that?"

"I...I didn't." Sherlock stutters, he blinks and scowls. "John?"

"Just don't." The doctor stops him, there's a large ball of anguish sitting in his throat and he feels like he can barely breathe. He holds his hand up to stop the conversation, he can feel a well of excess saltwater filling his eyes and he tries hard not to let it show, but it's too late.

"But I'm not dead." He detective blurts ot. "John, I'm right here."

"I know..." John trials off, voice broken, he presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubs them so hard he sees bright whirling colours. He sweeps the fallen tears from his cheeks and sniffs to regain control, sitting again.

"...sorry." Sherlock finally says from the bed. His heart monitor seems to have jumped in speed and John eyes it with concern, he's clearly stressing the detective though he knows it will be denied.

"I know." He finally says, "I know, it's alright." He pulls Sherlock's bandaged hand into him and cups it softly in his own, hoping the beeps might slow a little but they don't.

"I don't understand." The detective says, "I don't understand what the problem is?"

John thinks his friend looks young in that moment, his perplexed look only serving to make this worse. "It's okay." He sighs, all anger drained away to nothing.

"If people care so much?" Sherlock whispers. "Why?"

"Because we love you, you bloody moron." The doctor quirks a lip.

The younger man doesn't answer, a similar bewildered look crosses his features before he finally speaks. "Okay." He says.

John is thankful to see the ECG slowing, beats regular and steady, he hopes it won't be long before the infusion can be turned down, he gives it less than a day before the detective is climbing the walls to get out this place.

"I'm sorry I worried you."

Mindful of the wound John chooses to squeeze his friend's upper arm in response. He smiles sadly.

"It's alright, Just please. Be a bit more careful next time okay?"

Sherlock nods in reply, his eyes a drooping in exhaustion, finally he yawns. "Okay. Whatever you say John." His eyes slip closed and he drifts back into a slumber.


	5. Full time carer

**A/N:** **Fifth chapter correlates to chapter five of 'It takes John Watson to save your life' Starvation. Sherlock doesn't eat while on a case and suffers the consequences. However John struggles with his patient and his patience.**

 **Many thanks for all continued support. The final chapter of KCL will be coming soon, i just have quite a bit on with work at the moment. Hope you enjoy this for now.**

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Chapter 5: Full time carer

"This is Sherlock Holmes, 34 year old, we were on the tube following a suspected murderer when we got into an altercation. Although this is not the problem, he has suspected hypoglycemia." John said as the medics crouched down and began to undo their bags. He could still feel the gentle shuddering from his friend's body beside him. "He's had a little carbonated drink for now but would be worth doing a blood glucose."

One medic simply nodded pulling a small glucose monitor out the side of a bag and gently grasping one of Sherlock's pale hands to obtain a drop of blood from his fingertip. Surprisingly the detective did not protest, heightening the doctor's worry somewhat. A slight incomprehensible babble muttered from the detective's mouth, he swayed away from John but the doctor held him, his level of consciousness was depleting by the second.

"1.3." the paramedic stared at the screen of the small monitor after it beeped to signal a reading.

"Christ." John looked to his watch, he was sure it had been at good 3 minutes since the sugary drink, plenty of time for his friend's body to start to raise his glucose levels.

"Cold." Was the only thing which his best friend could muster before he seemed to lean more heavily into the doctor.

"Alright." John turned quickly, grasping Sherlock's shoulders, "lets lay down shall we." He said firmly as he gently started to push his friend's still wobbly form down to the platform below them.

"Is he diabetic?" The second medic was pulling out more supplies in the bag, coming forth with a small packet of glucogel, liquid dextrose designed to treat low blood sugar.

"No," John replied, but actually doubting himself for a second, "At least not that I know of. This could easily be explained by his four day hunger strike," he said angrily. "How could you be so stupid!" he direct the comment to the detective who was now flat on his back, his eyes were staring glassily to the sky above, glazed and listless.

"Sherlock?" he said a bolt of worry gripping him, "Hey, can you hear me?"

The detective made no attempts at replying to his friend, but moaned slightly as another train rumbled into the station not 6 feet from where they were.

"I need you to take some of this for me?" John grasped the tube of gel from the medic, snapping the top off and squeezing a small quantity between his friend's cheek and gums.

Sherlock tried to bat the doctor's hand away but his arm was uncoordinated and weak, he frowned at the partly sweet, partly bitter substance as it trickled into his mouth.

"I know its not nice but your blood glucose is dangerously low, you need to take some onboard."

The detective only managed a dazed glance at his friend before his eyes slipped closed. Only seconds passed as the paramedics began to unload more medical supplies when and he began to cough. Only slightly at first but it quickly spiraled into a full blown coughing fit, each gasp of air sending a pull of panic through the doctor.

John watched with concern as the pulse oxymeter which of the medics had attached to his friend's finger began to drop percentage, oxygen levels in his friend's blood slowly depleting. 96, 95, 91, 90, 87…

"Shit." He swore. "Oxygen?'

The paramedics were already on it though, before the doctor had said another word, a mask was being secured to his friends face. Sherlock's pallor seemed worse, if at all possible, ghost white with a shade of cyanosis present.

"He was strangled by a criminal." John said, checking his friend's pulse despite the fact the one of the medics was doing exactly the same on the other side of Sherlock's neck. It was then he noted the purple bruising was starting to show, only faint but most definitely beginning to form under his chin.

Two concerned looking faces suddenly turned John's way.

"Do we need to call the Police sir?"

"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is on his way, the man in question is one stop back and hopefully in cuffs by now."

The paramedics eyed him with an air of disbelief.

"Sherlock is a consulting detective and I'm his doctor, Doctor John Watson. If you don't believe me then feel free to call Lestrade on my phone." John pulled his mobile out and offered it to the two young men.

"It's alright."

A weak whimper suddenly brought their attention away from awkward conversation and back to their patient on the ground. Sherlock's arm's flailed upwards in search of the mask but he seemed only partially conscious of himself.

"Sherlock?" John bent over him, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

There was no answer, just an incomprehensible babble of sounds from beneath the plastic oxygen mask. It was now the doctor was beginning to worry, it was not uncommon to take a few minutes for patients to get over a hypoglycemic episode but it usually didn't take longer than that. Sherlock was not playing by the rulebook, but then again when did he ever?

"Lets get a line in, we're taking him in." The slightly older of the two paramedics said, pulling out a selection of sterile items from the bag and preparing for an intravenous cannula.

"Agreed." John gently pulled one of his friend's arms from his coat and then slowly the other.

The detective made no real efforts to protest the action, the doctor wasn't sure if he was in a half conscious stupor or if he was so exhausted he had actually given in to the medical team around him. Either way he didn't like it. His eyes remained half mooned and semi closed.

"Tom, get the trolley would you?" The older EMT asked the other, who kindly left for the ambulance.

John held his friend's still slightly shaky appendage steady for the man to place the IV in the back of the detective's hand. Again, barely a whisper sounded from under the mask.

"This is not like him." John cried finally, as the tape secured the plastic cannula in place and the man flushed it with saline. "He's usually fighting me at every opportunity in these kinds of situations."

"Does he need your medical attention a lot?"

The doctor chuckled, "Not as much as he'll let me." He shook his head. "But far more often than anyone really should. He's reckless when it comes to his own self preservation."

"I can see that." The paramedic frowned, "Has anyone spoken to him about things like this?"

John actually full blown laughed this time, and it helped his growing worry in the pit of his stomach to ebb away a little. "You'd be lucky, he would deduce you in a second, no one psychoanalysis Sherlock Holmes." John remembered Mycroft told him once of a day where Sherlock saw five therapists in one day, all but one came away in tears and the last one finished their career.

"Seriously, you do not want to go there." He said.

"Fair enough." The medic pricked the end of the detective's finger for another sample of blood. He held the test strip to the small globule of red until the glucometer beeped again. "2.2mmol. Better, but still low."

"IV dextrose?" John asked.

"Lets give him a dose then load him."

The medic had returned with the gurney and by the time the detective had been gently loaded onto the trolley and into the back of the waiting ambulance the dose of intravenous glucose was slowly infusing into his veins. If this didn't work then John really would start to panic.

As the ambulances door's closed with a resounding clunk the detective's eyes cracked open a little more and his head turned to face his flat mate.

"Welcome back." John stepped over to him and the vehicle started to move, this only proved to wake the detective more from his half conscious state. In a second he was sitting bolt upright on the bed, hands braced on the rails either side.

"Easy." The doctor placed a comforting hand on his friend's arm and Sherlock reeled back from the touch.

"John?" the detective blinked several times, he pulled the mask from his face and the doctor could now see he was breathing hard. Short, panicked breathes.

"Your in an ambulance, its okay. We just lost you for a minute there."

"Yes, very good. Time to go home now. Baker street please driver" He shouted to the front and pulled his legs over the edge of the gurney.

"Oh no you don't." John placed a firm grip on both of Sherlock's upper arms and this time the younger man did not flinch back. "You're going no where but hospital for a check over. You took quite a beating let alone that you were out for far too long."

"Easily explainable, I'm on Quinine."

"What?" John took a second to process the information. "For Malaria?"

"As a precaution. I was in Africa a week ago."

"When?" the doctor was suddenly stunned into silence with this new piece of information. He let go of his friend, which was the biggest mistake he made. The detective was on his feet before either John or the medic had a chance to intervene. He was wobbly and had to brace himself on the side of the trolley for support.

"Get back on the bed!" Captain Watson near shouted. "Right now."

"John I do think an ambulance is a little overkill don't you?" The detective pulled the oxygen off his head and down to the bed. "And oxygen, please, I'm not exactly dying here. Surely these poor medics have more life or death patients to be dealing with."

'Yes and much less arrogant one's too. Now sit down." John ground out; his worry was quickly turning into anger.

"No." Sherlock pulled his coat from the seat and shoved one arm in and then the other. "And an IV? Really now?" he noticed the cannula taped securely in. "Can I please be dropped off now?" he asked politely. "I can catch a cab from anywhere."

"Sherlock." John's voice dipped down into a dangerous tone. "Don't you even dare."

"Attempted strangulation and a few cracked ribs. I really do think your overreacting."

"Overreacting!" John's voice did shout this time. He was glad to see the paramedic staying well out of the argument, telling his colleague to step on it to St Thomas's accident department.

"A few cracked ribs in your book are likely completely broken if not a punctured lung knowing your medical judgment."

"Sit down or I will sedate you Sherlock. You know I will." The doctor threatened.

"No you wont." The detective pulled the intravenous line clean out in one swift motion, blood welled from the site in a second.

John considered actually rugby tackling his friend to the bed for a moment, but knew this would solve nothing in the long run.

"You arrogant cock!" he finally said. "These people are here to help you. Will you not at least let the doctors in the A&E check you over."

"I'm perfectly fine." Sherlock replied, leaning heavily on the gurney with a long and drawn out breath. John could see he was feeling some discomfort. He knew any move to force his friend to the bed would not end well, so they stayed that way for a good couple of minutes in stalemate, like a Mexican standoff.

When finally the ambulance came to a halt not merely minutes later at the entrance to St Thomas's accident department, the scene played out just as he doctor had expected it to.

Sherlock pushed the back door open, he jumped out, stumbling slightly on his feet before walking in the opposite direction of the hospital.

"Jesus." The doctor rubbed his forehead and exhaled. "I am so very sorry for his behaviour." He shook his head. "Please do accept my apologies. Thank you so much for your help."

He swallowed back the embarrassment and jumped from the ambulance, hurrying after his friend to catch up with him.

By the time John caught up with the detective they had turned the corner and were halfway along the main road heading back towards Westminster and the river.

"Do you have any idea how much of an arrogant bastard you are!" John shot as he rounded on his friend.

"As you say." Sherlock dismissed his friend and continued to walk, his great coat was swaying dramatically in the light breeze.

"You're unbelievable!" The doctor growled. "We only want to help you."

"I don't need your help." A snarling answer came from the detective. "I did perfectly fine just without you."

"Fine." John threw his hands into the air and stopped, watching as his friend continued down the street. "Don't bother asking for my help again." He shouted after him.

The doctor turned back the hospital, his pulse was thudding loudly in his ears and he clenched and unclenched his fists in a bid to calm himself enough to function. Right now it was probably best not to hail a cab for home, save his dignity. Sometimes he hated how he could so easily become volatile, he wasn't sure how he hadn't punched his friend in the face by now but somehow he hadn't.

As John stopped on the corner of the ambulance park as he tried to calm himself further, a familiar face appeared.

"John?" Lestrade hurried across the road. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Don't even bother asking." The doctor grumbled. "He's on his way home I assume."

"Thought he was hurt?"

"He is…" John looked up to his friend, "But, well, you know what he's like."

Lestrade caught on quickly. "Yeah I know. Are you alright?"

John hadn't actually thought about this until now and he took a moment to answer the question. Catagorising his aches and pains. "Mild concussion, some bruising. I'll live I'm sure." He noted to give himself a check over once he was home.

"Want to get checked out?" Greg motioned to the hospital building but John shook his head.

The thudding in the back of his skull actually was rather off putting, he had a feeling he would have a hell of a headache later.

"Do you want a lift home?" Lestrade could see that the doctor was more than a little spent.

"That would be… kind of you." John inhaled deeply, the anger was finally starting to dissipate. "But what about Daniel Featherstone?"

"Just arrived." The inspector shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Donovan's with him. Seems he's not going anywhere anytime soon. Someone put a bullet in his leg and knocked him out." He smiled.

"Really?" John smiled back, "shame that."

"Come on." Lestrade pointed to the police care across the road, "Lets get you home, you look done in mate. I'll take a formal statement tomorrow."

"Thanks Greg." John followed the inspector across the road and into the marked police car. At least he could have a ride home with a familiar face.

"What did he do this time?" Lestrade started the car and put it into drive before turning to wait for the traffic.

John sighed, exasperatedly, pulling a hand across his face. "What hasn't he?" he said. "He might be able to solve a murder in minutes but for all his intellect he really isn't all that bright."

Lestrade pulled out into traffic and towards the river. "He's always been like that, though much worse before you arrived."

"He's got no sense of self preservation." John moaned. "Four days Greg…" he sighed, "four days with no food, how is that humanly possible?"

"He once did five." Lestrade smiled sadly, "though he must have had something in that time, I can't imagine anyone being able to sustain themselves for that long, especially the speed he goes sometimes."

"What happened?" John queried, both interested and slightly horrified at the thought.

"Found him collapsed down the street from Scotland Yard after he solved the case…" The inspector slowed the car, just as he reached the other side of Westminster Bridge. "No so different from right now really." He motioned towards the footpath and a small crowd of people gathering there. He pulled the car to a complete stop and placed his blue lights on.

"For f…" John growled.

"Come on, I'll help." The inspector was out the car before John even had a chance to answer.

"Thank you everyone we'll take it from here." Lestrade flashed his Police ID and the small crowd of people parted to reveal a very recognisible figure clinging desperately to the barriers.

"You didn't have to scare the tourists Sherlock." The inspector rounded on the detective.

Sherlock's pale face was resting heavily on the grey security barrier only meters from Elizabeth tower, or most commonly known as Big Ben. His eyes were slits and he gazed with an unfocused and vacant look. His arms were shaking as he held on to staying upright as much as possible. But it was obvious that it would only be a matter of time before his tremoring knees would give out.

"Intravenous dose of glucose worn off has it?" John stood back a foot from his friend, just enough space to show he wasn't helping but also close enough that Sherlock could make him out even in his half conscious stupor.

"Come on John, let's get him into the car." Greg gently pulled an arm tightly around the younger mans waist and guided him a little more upright. Sherlock staggered on the spot but did not protest.

It was only then, once seeing his friend back in such a state that all anger washed from John's being and he stepped forwards, his need to help taking over his subconscious mind.

"Come on then." John reached around the opposite side to the inspector and they practically carried the lanky detective to the car. With some difficultly they folded him into the back seat and John hopped in beside him.

"Look at me." The doctor commanded, pulling his seatbelt on and then struggling to strap his friend in. "Sherlock?" He said more firmly.

The detective's eyes pulled open a little more. "Thought I was an arrogant bastard." He slurred.

"You are." John bit his tongue, " But you're also my friend. And God forbid those same medics pick you up again when a tourist rings for an ambulance when you collapse again."

"Here." Lestrade offered a cereal bar from the front seat.

"Thanks." John accepted it and opened the packet. "Now you listen to me good and proper you." He warned. "You eat all of this and we can go home."

Sherlock's half lidded vacant eyes scowled at the doctor.

"It's this or you go back to hospital were you actually belong right now." John held the chocolate coated bar before his friend, not really the most healthy breakfast snack out there he considered.

"That's hardly fair." Sherlock groaned.

"Hospital it is then."

"Wait." The detective managed to pull his eyes open a little more before grasping shakily for the food but not managing. John held it up to his face. "Fine." He took one bite of the sticky bar and chewed slowly. "I'll play your ridiculous game for now, seeing as you've kidnapped me off the street."

John laughed. "Kidnapped." He cried, "Your most certainly free to go if you want." He pointed to the door. "Off you go."

Sherlock looked to the door, he raised one shaky weak hand towards the handle but missed it by a mile. "Fine." He huffed again before taking a second bite of the offered bar.

"Good." John said simply before nodding to Greg to drive on. "Home it is then."

Sherlock took the final bite and swallowed it quickly. "Sorry." He whispered weakly before letting his head loll into the doctor's shoulder and he drifted into a slumber.

"Bloody pillock." John cried. "You need a full time bloody carer."

Greg laughed from the driver seat. "Yes John, that would be you."


	6. Bathtub blackout

**A/N: thanks for all the regular continued support. Its really appreciated. : )** **This recovery story correlates to chapter 6 from the series - Adenovirus. Enjoy.**

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Chapter 6 - Bathtub blackout

"Yes Doctor Watson?" The both steely and familiar voice of Mycroft Holmes sounded on the end of the line as John disappeared around the corner of the bathroom, mindful of not leaving his friend for too long incase he decided to pass out again.

"Eh." John stuttered, not sure what to say for a moment.

"What's he done now?" The beurocrat sighed audibly.

"Infected himself with a horrible stomach bug."

"I would say serves him right but seeing as your calling me for assistance then I'm assuming he's got himself into a spot of trouble?" Mycroft exclaimed.

John poked his head around the door of the bathroom, happy to see the detective had not slipped into the water further, but his eyes were closed, either from exhaustion or loss of consciousness.

"He's quite unwell." The doctor answered. "I would prefer to have him admitted to hospital but I have a feeling that he wont be that easy to convince."

"I feel that may be an unwise choice. Are you able to manage at the flat? I can send for assistance as needed?"

John exhaled, pausing. "I need some more kit, I don't have what I need here. I'm also due at work tomorrow."

"Consider your work sorted, please send me a list of medical supplies you require and I will have it sent over to you immediately."

"Thank you."

"Please do keep me updated on his health, in confidence of course. And if you require him to be admitted into hospital I will arrange whatever you need."

"Thanks." John said.

"Please inform my brother I will visit him soon. Take care of him Doctor Watson, I appreciate your loyalty to him."

"Was that a complement?"

"I wouldn't count on it." A pause. "Good day John." The line disconnected before the doctor could answer.

Returning to the bathroom quickly, John found his friend in the same position he had left him in. He pulled open his medical bag to see what supplies he already had. Quickly deciding he had little of use and the thing could do with a restocking he spent the next few minutes texting a rather long list to the older Holmes, including a healthy stock of medications that would be of use.

After finally clicking the send button he turned back to his friend and the immense task of getting him out of the tub and back to bed ahead of him.

"Sherlock?" John tried to rouse him. There was no response. "Come on mate, time to get to bed." He pulled the plug from the bath and the water began to drain with a whirling flow of noise.

The detective was shivering and the doctor placed his hands on his bare shoulders, shaking him lightly. Sherlock groaned but did not open his eyes.

"Come on. Bedtime."

"No tired." A whispered, slurred reply came.

"Don't care, I'm afraid you don't get a choice in the matter here. Get to bed or I'm taking you to a hospital for treatment."

'What?"

"You heard me. You play by my rules and let me look after you, or I take you to a hospital and they can deal with you."

"Don't need hospital." A giant shiver overtook the lanky figure in the bath and Sherlock let out another groan, clearly uncomfortable.

"Then lets get you to bed shall we. Come on, I need you to help me?" John placed a hand under each arm and tried to pull his friend upright.

It was no surprise that the detective was non-cooperative and barely moved with the force that was exerted onto him.

"Sherlock?" John stood back and frowned angrily. "Shall I call an ambulance then?"

"What?" A pair of bleary blue green glassy eyes opened and looked up towards him unfocused. "Why would go about calling an ambulance?"

"Shit." John scratched his head. "You really are sick aren't you?"

He deliberated for a moment weather an ambulance truly was a good idea but finally settled on Mycroft's own words. 'That would be an unwise choice'. Perhaps the man was right Sherlock and hospitals didn't ever mix well. With any luck he just needed to rehydrate his friend and he would be back on his feet within a day or two. First though he needed to somehow manage to get the idiot out of the bathtub and into dry pyjamas and bed, which was proving to be more difficult than he could comprehend.

"Sherlock?" John tried again.

"Hmm." His eyes drifted shut.

"Listen." The doctor exhaled. 'I've already done my back in getting you into the tub, I don't think I'm going to be able to get you back out again without help."

Silence.

"Right." John placed his hands on his hips. "Lets try some sugar and fluids then, maybe that will bring you out your stupor." He popped out the little room and into the kitchen to retrieve one of the bottles of Lucosade energy drink he had purchased.

"Can you manage it yourself?" John unscrewed the cap and gently placed it into the detective's hand that was resting on the bath side. "Here, try to drink some of this." He said.

Sherlock's hand grasped around the bottle weakly but as he tried to pull it towards his mouth half the contents dribbled onto his bare chest, making him shiver dramatically in response.

"Alright, alright." John steadied the bottle. "If you're bloody putting this on, I'm going to kill you." The doctor knew at the back of his head that Sherlock would never consider putting on such an act. The idea of being completely helpless and weak was nothing but disgusting in the detectives books, giving into 'ones transport' would be frowned upon. And this worried John no end.

"Here." The blogger gently placed the bottle up to his friend's lips and tipped it.

Sherlock took the fluid willingly, but did not open his eyes or attempt to hold the receptacle himself. The worry in John's stomach only continued to increase. Had he really infected himself this badly?

"Slowly." John said. "The anti emetic should be kicking in by now but you still need to drink slowly to avoid bringing it back up again."

Once half the bottle was empty the doctor pulled it away from his friend and placed it on the floor and checked his friend's pulse. It was racing, a sure sign of dehydration and fever.

"Give that a few minutes to give you some energy and we'll try again to get you up. If you can keep that down then you can have the rest once we get you to bed."

John felt like he was talking to a five year old. Except this one was not talking back, it worried him.

He debated for some time how long to wait before trying to remove the detective from the bathtub. Eventually he chose to fill the next few minutes with making up and tidying his friends room quickly. He stripped the heavy duvet from the bed and replaced it with one of Mrs Hudson's Afghan throws, he didn't want Sherlock to overheat under his usual bedding. He then cleared the vomit up, washed his hands and poured a cup of cool water from the tap, placing it on the bedside table in the hope to get his friend to drink it when he finally got to bed. Finally, he found a pair of new clean pyjamas in the drawers and placed them on the bed, considering that it may be easier to dress his sickly friend their rather than in the bathroom.

When he returned to his friend, he was pleased to see Sherlock's blue green eyes open again. He was staring ahead at the wall.

"Feeling any better?" he enquired.

"What?" Sherlock looked to him with a bewildered face.

"Never mind." John replied. "Let's get you to bed and dressed yeah?"

He bent low, cursing his already aching back and placed one hand under each arm of his friend, slowly pulling him upwards so he was sitting more now. The detective swayed and then leaned heavily into the doctor his chin now resting on John shoulder.

"Your going to have to help me more than this I'm afraid."

Sherlock only groaned in response. His body suddenly convulsing, before he vomited violently over his flat mate.

John only grimaced internally as he felt the rejected Lucosade soak through his shirt and down his back.

"Jesus." He cursed. Pushing his friend back gently he found Sherlock's eyes half lidded and bloodshot from unfallen tears. "Fuck." He cradled Sherlock's half lax body and let him lie back awkwardly into the bath. "Lets leave you here a minute shall we."

John bit his lip anxiously. He loathed to allow his friend to be squashed into the small cold tub but right now his back would not be able to take the strain. Time for plan B. Sherlock was clearly far sicker than he had first realized.

John paced out the bathroom returning with a large array of towels and bedding. He quickly set to drying his friend's naked body and the bath around him before finally rolling a few dry towels up for padding. He placed a few under his friend knees and his lower back. Then placing a pillow under Sherlock's head. He was out again it seemed, and made absolutely no attempts at complaining about his man handling. Finally, John covered his friend with the Afghan throw, to offer him at least some dignity.

The doctor quickly popped to his room, replaced the soiled shirt and it was then, almost as if on cue that there was a knock on the door to the flat.

"Won't be a second." John practically said to himself.

He collected the medical bag from Mycroft's minion with thanks and raced back upstairs and into the bathroom. Sherlock had not moved an inch, not that we was very surprised.

The doctor opened the bag on the bathroom floor, spreading out the supplies before gathering what he needed. He quickly placed an intravenous line into his friend's arm, which was helpfully draped over the bathtub edge. He connected a line and tied the bag of fluids up on the shower curtain rail, amused by how convenient it was. With any luck his friend temperature and demeanor would improve with some intravenous fluids.

John then drew up an injection of paracetamol, glucose and a dose of cidofovir, an anti viral medication. Despite Sherlock assuring him that he had infected himself with an attenuated virus he was not completely convinced. This previous case had been somewhat taxing on the detective and he must have already been immunosuppressed when he did the stupid experiment. God knows when he had last eaten let alone slept a wink.

"You're a bloody cock you know that." John cried, injecting the paracetamol into the extension line slowly, looking to his watch to time the injection. He chewed his lip when there was no reply.

"You know I'm still in two minds about sending you to hospital. Serves you bloody right you know. How could you be so stupid!" he injected the last bit and moved onto the glucose, this would need to be even slower infusing in. "But I don't think I could put the poor hospital staff through having you in, that's my pain to bare. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you…"

John sighed sadly, watching his friend's face for any signs of waking but it remained lax and pale. The idiot really had done himself in this time, John really did hope that they could avoid undue hospitalization. Both worried and anxious that Sherlock was not stirring at all he continued on.

"You want to know why I put up with you?" he smiled sadly, checking his watch and injecting another 0.1ml into the line.

"Because you're a bloody hero. You might not think it. In fact you've told me heroes don't exist. But you are one, and in so many ways."

John swallowed back the lump, which seemed to suddenly form in his throat. "You saved me that's for sure." He said. "You might not believe it if I told you, well actually you probably already know." He inhaled deeply. "I was willing to end it all before I met you." He pulled the empty syringe from the line and picked up the dose of anti viral medication. "I literally owe you my life on so many levels. Did you know I used to sleep with a gun in my bedside table? I was planning it all." A small tear escaped his eye and the doctor brushed it away quickly.

"And you really think I don't notice all those times you put yourself in danger to keep me safe. You try to cover it up but I know you do. You never told me why you jumped from Barts, but, well, I knew it had something to do with me."

He finished with the medications and cleared up the rubbish, pushing back the emotion, which was now sticking to the surface of his thoughts. He pulled out a small portable pulse oxymeter and clipped it to his friend's middle finger. The detectives pulse was still high but had reduced slightly.

"I wish you weren't such a fucking dickhead when it comes to your health." He sighed, happy with the readings the machine was kicking out, and he left the monitor in place. "I guess we all have our weaknesses but seriously mate, your not going to last forever if you keep up like this. Probably give yourself a bloody heart attack if your not careful putting all this unnecessary strain on it."

John looked to his friend's unconscious face.

"If you could wake up sometime soon that would be great." He asked. He gently peeled back on of his friend's eyelids and then quickly checked his pupil reactions in a fleeting worry that he had actually fallen into some sort of coma. He wouldn't put it past his friend. But no, his pupils were equal and reactive, he just needed to be patient for once.

John retrieved several cushions from the sofa and his laptop, settling himself on the bathroom floor with his back against the bath he turned his laptop on. He had promised to review a couple of articles and a research project for Mike and one of the undergraduates at the Barts. He might as well get on with them, there was little he could do right now.

He must have lost complete track of time because the next time he looked up the bathroom was near pitch black.

"Hello?" a familiar voice sounded in the hallway outside. This must have been what had drawn his attention away from his laptop.

"Greg?" John called.

A dark shadow appeared around the doorway and suddenly the light clicked on, flooding the room with bright stark light. The doctor blinked back from the pain it caused.

"John, what the hell are you doing sitting here in the dark…" Lestrade stopped mid sentence. "What's he gone and bloody done now, and why and earth is he in the bath tub?'

"Don't even ask." The doctor shut his laptop.

"He told me he'd solved the Daryl Crossley case, I've been too busy until now to come over."

"He has." John answered. "By infecting himself with a virus just to prove it."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Tried to bring his fever down in the bath but he passed out and I couldn't get him back out."

Greg actually laughed out loud. "Seriously." He chuckled. "You should have called me to help. I needed a get out of jail card… literally."

"Fancy a coffee?" John stood.

"Just tea for me." A croaky voice sounded behind him and he spun to find a bleary eyed detective looking back up at him.

"Awake are we?" the doctor folded his arms and raised his eyebrows. "How are you feeling?"

"Like death warmed up, next question." Sherlock grimaced and tried to stretch. '"Eh, why am I in the bath? And…" he peered under the blanket, "I do also appear to be naked."

Greg stifled another break of laugher and John's face turned a shade of red in both slight embarrassment and anger. "I'll just go and make that tea." The inspector darted towards the kitchen.

"Don't remember a thing do you?"

"Yes, well done John, I wouldn't be asking if I did would I? I'm assuming I have you to thank for ensuring I do actually wake up?"

"Is that a thanks?"

"Shut up and help me out!"


	7. Damage limitation

**A/N: this chapter correlates to the story title 'Pain management' over on the main story. It's got some great BAMF doctor John Watson. Do enjoy...**

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Chapter 7: Damage limitation

John thought the cabbie might pass out himself when the older man opened the passenger door and noticed the blood soaking through the detective's shirt and scarf. It didn't help when the doctor pointed with his bloodied hand towards the emergency department and asked him to find a doctor.

"Okay dokey." The driver rushed off to find aid, leaving John to assess his friend as best he could.

"Sherlock?" John patted the younger man's cheek before placing two fingers on the detectives carotid pulse. "Hey, can you open your eyes for me?"

There was no attempt at any response from Sherlock, he was lax and lifeless, his pale face sent a small shot of dread into the doctor. How could John be so stupid to miss such a huge injury on his best friend.

Sherlock's pulse was racing and John pulled up his eye lid gently to check his pupils before noting the rapid shallow breaths exhaling onto his own cheeks. He bent a little lower to inspect the wound with care. This was a bit not good. The skin around the entry point was red and angry as expected, but redness, coupled with swelling was evident in the entirety of Sherlock's upper arm, an almost sure sign of a large bleed under the skin. If the external heamorrhage wasn't enough the detective was bleeding out internally.

John pulled his friends large coat off his lower arm and Sherlock let out a small whine but did not stir otherwise. He placed two fingers on his friend's radial pulse. There wasn't one. The doctor bit his lip in worry.

"Jesus mate." He whispered. The doctor in John knew this was now more than just a simple gunshot, not only was his friend potentially bleeding to death inside the wound but he also had compromised blood flow to his arm, this was bloody serious.

"Can I help you?" A young lady appeared by the cab doorway, John guessed she was a junior doctor, tired and drained looking, overworked as usual.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, gunshot wound to the right shoulder, laterally to medially, signs of heamatoma and active internal bleeding. Radial pulse is absent. He passed out on arrival here, not easily rousable, signs of hypovoleamia present."

"Right." The young women looked a little lost and flustered for a moment, "ah."

"Perhaps a trolley and some more help?" John commanded both calmly but firmly. "We'll need to carry him out the cab."

"Yes." The young lady rushed off.

"Let's get this off you shall we?" The doctor gently pulled Sherlock's coat from his left shoulder and arm to slip him out of it. It was then the detective managed to crack his eyes open.

"John?" He slurred, his voice carried an air of anxiety.

"It's alright, we're going to get you sorted okay." The doctor soothed, "just try to relax, we'll get you some pain relief and fluids and get you stitched up in no time."

John looked up to his friend's face but he was out again.

The gurney arrived only moments later, the young junior doctor had a more senior consultant in toe and John found himself repeating Sherlock's history, injury and clinical signs again but in more detail.

It took more than a little effort and cursing to move the detectives lax form from the back of the cab and onto the bed, and to John's rising worry he did not rouse for a second. Even when a nurse began to place pressure onto the oozing gunshot wound his face remained still and indifferent, not a single crease of discomfort passed across it. How much blood had he actually lost, why was he such a stubborn ass?

John barely had a second to thank and pay the cabbie double as the medical team began to spin into action, rushing the trolley from the roadside and into the entrance of accident and emergency department. In moments they were in a cubicle and nurses and doctors already attaching monitoring and lines to the detective. John only just managed to keep up with them and listened as the lead doctor now assigned to Sherlock's case began to reel off a list a orders and tests.

"I want three units cross matched, full bloods and radiographs of the arm and thorax, someone please page anaesthesia and both vascular and ortho surgeons. I want a line in, 10mg of morphine and co-amoxy IV. I know this is our forth GSW of the hour but you're all doing well team."

Forth? John zoned out momentarily, how could there be this many traumas in such a short space of time it wasn't a Saturday night in the east end? He actually almost kicked himself when he remembered the ambulance racing away from the deserted warehouse. His anger rose exponentially at the thought of the murderer, if he saw that bastard who had shot not only Sherlock but Lestrade and Donovan he was worried he might not be able to stop a revengeful outburst, he'd kill him if he had half a chance.

"Doctor Watson?" A voice snapped him out of his searing thoughts.

"Yes?" John looked up to the lead trauma doctor.

"Jack Michaels, senior consultant." The man shook John's hand.

"We're a little thin on the ground here." The senior man said, "seems the scuffle you all got into has caused quite a scene. I've already got press outside the door and I'm down three members of my team. Do you think you could give me a hand, I know you have extensive experience of gun shot injuries?"

"Of course." John didn't even think twice and accepted the pair of gloves donning them ready.

For a split second he felt he was back on the battlefield again, treating endless wounded soldiers and civilians, the smell of disinfectant and white brought him back though. He glanced downwards, Sherlock's face was partially hidden behind an oxygen mask now strapped to his face, his closed eyes looked hollow and gaunt, could he even do this for his best friend?

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" He faltered.

"Think you can handle it? I could really do with a hand, I understand it's not normal protocol?"

John gulped back the rising panic, bit his cheek so hard it actually helped his thoughts clear and calmed somewhat.

"What do you need me to do?"

"The team are already getting some blood and fluids into him but his blood pressure is tanking, I think he's probably got a small arterial bleed in here." The consultant pointed gently to Sherlock's upper arm which had already been efficiently stripped of his shirt and jacket. The entry point wound had been bound with thick tight dressing to apply pressure.

How long had John been caught up in his own angered thoughts, things where moving so fast.

The senior doctor continued. "There's no exit wound meaning they'll be more internal damage. We'll take a couple of quick X-rays but it sounds like the surgeons are already caught up with your colleague and another surgery. Trouble is I don't think we have time to wait for them. We need to get this bleeding under control before we send him for reconstructive surgery, otherwise he's going to bleed to death."

John gulped again. "Agreed." He grimaced at the sight of the detectives upper arm, blooming and swelling with various shades of red and purple from the blood. "Do you want to tourniquet it?"

"Not yet, we don't know how far the bullet has travelled, we may be stemming the flow past the point of heamorrhage, let's get this radiograph."

John looked to see a nurse wearing a lead gown wheeling in mobile X-ray into the cubicle quickly.

"Thorax and right upper arm for now, we can do more as needed."

The nurse only nodded in reply, sorting out an X-ray plate and gently slipping it under Sherlock's injured appendage.

"Let's give her a moment."

John followed the doctor to behind a small screen and waited patiently, as every minute began to pass the heart beat in his ears only heightened his anxiety further. He could do this, he needed to do this, without him Sherlock was at risk of losing his arm or even worse potentially his life. Not worth thinking about right now. In a matter of minutes which to the blogger actually felt near a hour the X-rays were complete and he nearly ran back to the bedside of his friend, taking in the monitor readings and checking again to see if he had roused, but he hadn't.

"Doctor Watson?" Jack Michaels was before a computer screen which clearly had the radiographs on display already. John joined him quickly.

"Chest is clear."

John exhaled a little, thankful for small mercies.

"But the humerus is shattered, will need fixing." The doctor pointed to the screen as if John were a training doctor unable to see the comminuted break in Sherlock's upper arm bone, fragments were scattered around the clear path of the bullet which was lodged just in the edge of his clavicle, it was a mess.

"Shit." John rubbed his face. "There's a mirage of nerves and vessels running through here." The doctor felt the same, pointing out the obvious to the senior consultant. The path of the bullet suggested it travelled through the detective's upper arm bone, though his arm pit area where main vessels ran, then through the deep pectoral muscle and into the collar bone which had stopped it's trajectory.

"The bone fragments have probably nicked the brachial or axillary arteries. Or if we're unlucky then potentially both. We're bloodily lucky that bastard didn't take out the clavicle too!" The consultant pointed angrily at the bullet remains showing up like a shiny coin on the screen. "If it hadn't stopped it could have taken out the subclavian or even carotid artery, he would have been dead in minutes if so."

Typical trauma doctor, straight to the point, little time or need in talking around the subject.

John had to steady his composure for a moment. This wasn't the case, Sherlock was alive right now, despite a heavy bleed they were fighting for him and with some help he was going to be okay. Wasn't he?

"Nerve damage is highly likely." John swallowed back the nausea. This was a patient he needed to stop thinking this was his best friend, he needed to concentrate on being a doctor right now, there would be time to be a friend later.

"Yes but I think stemming the blood flow takes priority right now do you agree?"

John bowed his head and sighed. "And to be fair, we'd be risking compartment syndrome if we wait too long let alone worsening hypovoleamia. Are you sure the surgeons are not available to do this?"

"Inspector Lestrade is in surgery, he's requiring quite a team on him."

"Christ."

"Anaesthesia are here." The consultant pointed.

"I'm not sure..." John gulped. "I'm not sure I'm the best man for you? Do you think he would be better with a CT first?" His voice was shaking slightly.

"You're one of the best trauma surgeons we can get. Far superior on any of my work. I understand this is not normal protocol. We can't wait for a CT, his blood pressure is dropping by the minute."

In the back of John's mind he realised this was, probably somewhere along the lines, the workings of Mycroft Holmes. Very few doctors would be asking for this kind of involvement, it would not be a surprise that the older brother had already contacted the emergency department and already knew his brother had been shot. Bloody know it all.

"Fine." He took a long and shaky breath to compose himself.

It was then as he was about to ask for equipment that Sherlock's eyes snapped open. His gaze flitted around the room before he tried to sit up. John was on him in a second.

"Hey." The doctor bent over his friend and Sherlock looked at him with a glazed and vacant gaze. "Nice to see you with us. How you feeling?"

The detective didn't answer, he grimaced then moaned out against the pain in his arm and shoulder, trying to unsuccessfully sit upwards.

"Your a bloody idiot you know that right?" John said both in annoyance and friendly banter. "You've made a right mess of yourself." He gripped his friend's good shoulder and squeezed it firmly. "We'll get you sorted I promise."

He paused and Sherlock's brows tightened.

"Pain. Scale of one to ten, tell me?" He asked in a soldier like tone.

The detective still didn't answer, his eyes seemed to focus on his best friend and the look of misery passed through them. One single tear escaped down his cheek and John caught it with his thumb.

"Alright. I've got the message." He whispered.

He turned to the rest of the team. "He needs more analgesia, another 10mg of morphine and some benzodiazepines if you can."

"We'd prefer some ketamine if your looking for sedation."

"No." John shot. "No Ket, he doesn't react well." He was in full bad ass doctor mode now. "I'm his doctor." He added. "4mg of midazolam IV, if you can please?"

Sherlock let out a louder groan of pain and John noted a young medic had manoeuvred his broken arm up to begin cleaning it for emergency surgery.

"Hey!" John barked. "Leave it will you. Let's do that when he's had his morphine, better still once he's fully deeply sedated. He's in considerable amount of pain right now."

Doctor John bent down lower now, sitting briefly on the small stool beside the bed, he grasped his friend's hand, now complete with an intravenous line and pulse oximetry on his index finger. Sherlock's eyes slid weakly sideways, listening carefully to John's words.

"You've got a nasty bleed in your wound. The doctors are too busy with Lestrade so I've got to help the team out. I know you'll probably be much happier with this. But we are going to have to sedate you, it's going to be too painful."

"No." he whispered sluggishly in reply, "no sedation."

"Not negotiable I'm afraid."

John looked to the anaesthesia team, one was drawing up a large syringe of white liquid, unmistakable for propofol. It would put the detective out completely but safely enough for John and the consultant to stem the bleed surgically.

"Your going to need a proper operation to sort out your broken bones and soft tissue but right now it's just about stopping the bleeding. Damage limitation. Do you understand."

Sherlock didn't answer again, his eye lids dropped half closed, the second dose of opioids were trickling into his vein and he was drifting.

"Just hang tight mate." John clasped Sherlock's upper arm and then released it, turning back to the rest of the medical team.

"Right then. Anaesthetists what's the plan?"

"Propofol to effect, not planning for intubation but will be ready, placing a oropharyngeal airway to ensure it remains clear. Will be ready to tube if necessary."

John nodded. "Good." He said, barking to the nurses and junior doctors. "I need a general soft tissue kit, whatever you have, possibly vascular surgery instruments. Plenty of swabs for packing too. May need surgical loupes but will see. Once sedated I want the medial aspect and axilla scrubbed and the shoulder abducted up for access. No hanging around please we have an arterial bleed to stop."

Many different staff members pulled into action as John went to the sink, dousing his hands and arms in surgical scrub before starting his hand wash. He remained watching the team carefully, his nerves now all but gone and his mind solely on the one task at hand, medical diagrams of the shoulder joint coming to the forefront of his thoughts. He kept half an eye on the anaesthesia team by his friend's side, the propofol infusion beeping as the syringe driver began. Sherlock's eyes had long since slipped back closed, he hoped the sedation would be enough for the detective, he knew Sherlock's track record on fighting through drugs.

By the time John had finished his surgical scrub, donned a gown and sterile gloves the team had prepared Sherlock and all kit he needed. This was something he certainly didn't get the luxury of in field medicine. At times he'd struggle for even a sterile kit, it was sometimes a make do with what you have. But here he was in the middle of London at a leading hospital with some of the best trauma medics and nurses, he couldn't think of a better place for his best friend to be.

"Alright. Let's gets you sorted." He said with both conviction and assurance. John wasn't a good doctor, he was very good doctor, he knew what he was doing.

Sherlock was barely visible now, beneath a sea of sterile blue waterproof drapes John didn't forget his best friend was under them but switched entirely into trauma surgeon mode. Find the bleed, stop it and prevent further damage.

The detectives arm was swollen and misshapen and when the doctor sliced into it with his scalpel a large amount of blood spilled out onto the surrounding area and into the bed sheet below.

"Jesus mate." John packed the new wound with swabs. "No wonder your blood pressure is so crap." He looked to the monitors, reading his friend's vitals, stable, but pressures still dropping slowly. He tried to clear the surgical site but even as he wiped away the crimson, more of it welled up, blocking his view. He took a deep breath to compose himself. "Suction." He asked firmly. A small suction tip magically appeared in his view to remove the flow of blood.

"Right where are you?" John dug into the wound, exploring the inside of his friend's arm both quickly and as carefully as he could, something in there was bleeding profusely.

He took several minutes, opening the wound up and trying to see further inside but with no luck.

Suddenly though, just as he probed deeper, his forceps must have come into contact with nerves because Sherlock's arm twitched and somewhere deep in his throat he groaned.

"Christ!" John turned to look at both the anaesthetists and his friend's face. "He's not sedated enough."

Sherlock coughed and the team quickly removed his airway tube before pushing in a bolus of propofol through his line. His eyes were still closed but his brows furrowed tightly into a grimace and a stifled moan left his lips.

"Get him under!" John shot. "I don't care if he's fully under anaesthesia, I can't have him awake." A small air of angry undertone changed the atmosphere of the room.

Within a minute or so the detectives face relaxed back into slack and emotionless features. The doctor by his head gently placed a laryngeal mask into his mouth and down into throat to protect his airway again and he then made no attempts at rousing.

John nodded in thanks and continued his job.

It took a good 10 minutes for him and the senior trauma doctor to locate the source of the heavy bleeding. The axillary artery, it had been ruptured by a small shard of bone from the bullet's path and it took a large amount of cursing on both sides to repair it. Without repair then they were risking the blood flow to Sherlock's lower arm and hand. John couldn't tell how much nerve damage there was, the wound was a mess but it would have to wait for the experts to sort it. Right now they had repaired what they needed to and it was time to get out and suture.

Five minutes later both doctors looked up from their work.

"Thank you." John said, placing the final tacking stitch before pulling off his gloves.

The nursing team jumped into action the moment he stepped away and once the wound was cleaned it was soon dressed and bound to protect it prior to surgery later on.

"Good job." Doctor Michaels said, patting the younger doctor on the back.

"Thanks." John swilled his hands under the two but then turned sharply when he heard his friend's choked gasp. He was by the bed in a flash.

"Easy." He grasped Sherlock's good shoulder.

"John?"

"Jeez mate, how can you wake up like that, you're unbelievable. Though nice to see your blood pressures rising." John planted himself in the seat which was still surprising next to the gurney. "You alright, how you feeling?"

"Like a shark ripped my right arm off and ate it. Is it still there?" The detectives voice was slurred and slow, he pulled the oxygen mask off his face to his neck but the doctor didn't have the heart to move it back right now.

"Yep, still there. But it's quite a mess, you're going to need some proper surgery on it to repair the bone and all the damage the bullet has inflicted."

"Thought you were doing that?" He mumbled.

"Ah no." John smiled. "I'm not a orthopaedic or vascular surgeon. I just fixed you up so you wouldn't bleed to death or hopefully lose the limb. You've got some of the best doctors in the country to sort the rest out."

"Oh." Sherlock finally managed to let his head turn to face his friend. He frowned deeply and a bewildered look passed over his features. "But I thought you were the best doctor in the country?" He slurred.

John couldn't help but laugh slightly. "I'm an army medic Sherlock, a trauma surgeon and doctor. I'm all about damage limitation and salvage what you can. I think I'll leave the proper work to the proper doctors, that is if you want a working limb."

"Huh." The detective's eyes narrowed and he blinked a few times to try to clear his thoughts.

"Enjoying that morphine?"

"Hmm." He smiled lopsidedly. "Quite a bit actually, though it doesn't seem to do a thing for the pain."

"Sorry." John frowned. "Maybe we can switch to something stronger."

A pause.

"John?" Sherlock stirred, but his eyes were now half lidded again.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." And he slipped back into oblivion.

* * *

Laterally to medially - laterally is the outer side of the body or limb and medial is the inner side for example your inner leg if this makes sense. It's a way of describing points or directions on the body in medicine (both human and veterinary)

Heamatoma - blood accumulation under the skin - a blood blister is a typical example but they can be extreme.

Co-amoxy - Amoxicillin/clavulanic acid, also known as co-amoxiclav, a penicillin antibiotic

Hypovoleamia - low circulating volume of blood casing shock

Oropharyngeal airway - a type of tube which is inserted into the mouth in down into the oropharynx to stop the tongue from blocking the airway

Laryngeal mask - a tube/mask which is placed over the opening of the trachea (larynx) to protect and ensure a patent airway during minor or short procedures - used more often in hospitals these days

Surgical loupes - those fancy glasses surgeons wear which are like microscopes for the eyes for doing very delicate surgery

Axilla - your arm pit basically


	8. Migraine

**A/N: you'll be pleased to know I'm still here. Certainly still writing when I actually can. Hope you enjoy. This is a recovery story to 'Crashed' storyline. Nothing too taxing but some nice caring doctor John.**

* * *

Chapter 8: Migraine

A strangled cry brought John round from his thoughts deep in his novel. His heart rate shot up and he stared across the room to his best friend on the sofa.

Sherlock was awake, he had been sleeping fitfully, much as he had been ever since they had returned home less than a week ago. This afternoon though was worse than usual, tossing and moaning regularly, it made the doctor cringe with sorrow. Most times the detective would wake confused but shake off any queries about his wellbeing with a simple 'fine'. This time, it seemed he was having one of his amnesiac moments and these worried the doctor even more than the restless slumber. Not that it was uncommon for someone recovering from a traumatic brain injury to have these, but when it was his best friend, it send dread through him like a knife edge.

"Sherlock?" John put down his book, rising slowly from his seat with a stifled groan. His chest was still tight and sore, even after three weeks bed bound in hospital and now home, he was slowly, begrudgingly weaning himself off the pain killers. "Sherlock you alright?" He said as he reached the side of the sofa.

Even in the grey afternoon gloom he could see the detectives body was shaking lightly, his eyes were wide and distant and a light sheen of sweat graced his upper lip and forehead.

"Nightmares again?" John asked, unsure if he was about to get a barrage of abuse for asking.

"This isn't Montague street?" Sherlock said distantly, his brow furrowed and he blinked hurriedly as if to jog his shattered fractured memories back into place.

"No this is Baker Street, remember? 221B."

"No." he replied simply.

"Where's my skull?"

"The fireplace." The doctor pointed, "where it usually is."

"Oh."

John began to worry a little more at this. These memory loss moments were usually just that. Moments. After a quick jogging of the detectives memory then he seemed to get himself back in the present day. This was taking a little longer than it should. However, the next words which left his flat mates mouth made his steady and composed facade of calm crumble quickly.

"Who are you?"

John swallowed thickly. This hadn't happened before, this was a bit not good. His heart rate having calmed from the initial worry now sprung up and increased in rate.

"John." He said.

Sherlock frowned.

"John Watson. Army doctor, of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers. I live here with you. Remember?" He asked calmly, "I suppose you could say I'm your doctor."

"What kind of doctor would live with me?" Sherlock snorted in response, "did Mycroft send you?"

"No." John replied, "I'm not actually sure if he likes me to be honest."

"Really?" The edges of the detectives lips quirked up ever so slightly. "In that case I suppose you could stay."

"That's good then because all my things are here and it would take some packing to move them."

"Why are all your personal belongings in my flat?" Sherlock scratched the edges so his stitches on his scalp and ear.

"I live here with you." John said flatly, having to repeat himself.

"Oh." Sherlock blinked again.

A very awkward silence ensued and the doctor hoped to God that in the next few minutes his friend's mind would begin to piece his memory back together again and come round.

"Would you like some tea?" John offered and a traditional British fashion, tea always solved everything right?

"Yes."

"Darjeeling?" The doctor asked kindly, "I know it's one of your preferred, especially if your not feeling 100%, less strong, more soothing and easy on the senses."

"How do you know?" Sherlock grumbled.

John inhaled deeply, he needed to remain as calm as possible, the anxiety for his friend which was bubbling just beneath the surface could not break that surface. It would only prove to panic the detective in his disoriented state.

"I've lived here with you for the last five years Sherlock, I've sort of picked up on some of the things you like. Mrs Hudson's mince pies, sausage rolls and Victoria sponge to name a few." John smirked, knowing that all three had been cordially made in typical fussing Mr Hudson fashion. Knowing too well that the detective was unlikely to eat well during his recovery, she wasn't wrong.

"Well this is intriguing isn't it." The detective said, he voice was unreadable and John could not tell if he was angry or actually genuinely intrigued by his memory loss. He continued as the doctor went to put the kettle on to boil the water.

"Here I am, sitting in a flat I don't know with a man who I don't remember, yet claims to have known me for five years. And you seem to know Martha Hudson." He pulled himself up to sitting, letting out a short yelp from the movement. "And I also seem to have an external bone fixator on my ankle and foot."

The doctor eyed him. "Don't you dare put any weight on that." He warned darkly. "You've already had to have it adjusted twice, I promised them there would not be a third"

Sherlock sat forwards, poking at the areas where the metal rods disappeared into his skin and into the bone below. He pulled up one sleeve of his blue dressing gown and inspected his arm, noting the fading bruises and old puncture wounds as well as subtle marks in his skin. His brain began to process the information quickly. He pulled a hand up to his head again, feeling the hair regrowing hair on the side of his head and the stitches protruding still.

"Don't even think about that either." John was now standing with his hands on his hips in the kitchen doorway. "Do you have any idea how many times we've restitched that wound, if you'd left it, it would have been well on the way to healing by now."

"25 and a half days." Sherlock exclaimed then.

"What?"

"Since whatever accident that befell me. And you by the looks of it too. You walk stiffly and shuffle over the floor, your left arm is weaker than your right and you have it bandaged under your shirt."

John couldn't help let out a small smile, he was in there. Somewhere, the great mind of Sherlock Holmes was working hard to catch up again.

"Yes, I suppose it has been 25 days now. Do you want me to explain."

"No." the detective shot, bringing his steepled hands up beneath his chin he began to deduce.

"Your injury is to your shoulder, and by the looks of it in particular your collar bone and joint. Collar bone injuries are most commonly associated with a fall or a road traffic accident, usually because the seat belt breaks it stopping your head from hitting the windscreen instead. Since it looks like we were both in an accident it would say a fall is less likely so... RTC."

The kettle clicked off and John began to pour the water, adding the tea bags in to brew. "Yes, it was a car accident, you and me..."

"Quiet." Sherlock shushed him. "Must you always feel the need to fill silence. Are you sure you live here?" He said grumpily.

John chuckled but regretted it immediately as it jarred his healing ribs. He bent forwards and steadied himself on the counter, the colour drained from his complexion.

"Broken ribs." The detective said simply.

"Well done Einstein!" John came out the kitchen and rounded on his chair, sitting down for a moment, feeling breathless and dizzy from the pain. "Anything else you wish to add." Bugger weaning down his pain killers the doctor thought. He pulled up the tablet bottle from beside his chair, taking out two he swallowed them dry, pulling a look of disgust at their bitter taste.

"Morphine will do a much better job than Co-codamol, if you like?"

John's eyes darkened and he shot a look of both concern and disgust across the room.

A pregnant pause followed before Sherlock continued on his deductions.

"Seeing as you broke your ribs, collar bone, shoulder and had chest trauma coupled with my foot and probable traumatic brain injury then I say the collision didn't happen in central London. The cars really don't go fast enough for this sort of severity of injury. And we weren't hit by a car, otherwise both my legs would be broken and there would be more external wounds. No. I was driving, hence the broken ankle and you were passenger."

John returned to the kitchen to sort the tea out. He retrieved a plate and put two slices of Mrs Hudson's Victoria sponge out, in the hope to tempt his friend to eat something, his last attempts had failed.

"So what were you doing outside of London with me in a car travelling at high speeds?"

Sherlock accepted the tea handed to him and it was then John noticed the slight tremor in it. This was not new but seemed worse than earlier. The physiotherapist said it would improve with time.

"We were on a case." John took a long mouthful of tea to rid the bitter taste of the tablets.

"Oh." Sherlock's face completely blanked. His hand shook even more violently then and John had to quickly rescue the mug from it to save his friend from the scolding hot drink.

"Sherlock?" John put his own mug down, switching to doctor mode instantly. "Sherlock look at me?" He commanded.

The detective relaxed against the back of the sofa with a soft sigh, his head tilted slightly backward and he stared listlessly at the ceiling. His right hand still shaking.

John was on his feet. "Hello!" He said quickly, patting his friend's cheeks firmly. "Hello, look at me would you. Talk to me?" His voice remained calm but the edges of his tone quivered slightly.

"John." Sherlock said finally in a sluggish and slow speech, not changing position or moving his eyes. "I'm so tired."

"I know mate." The doctor exhaled at least some panic, "but your scaring me a little bit. Do you think you can sit up for me?"

There was no answer, his friend's eyelid dropped down.

"Sherlock?" John placed two fingers on his best friend's neck, checking his pulse. It was normal, no signs of shock or cardiovascular problems for now anyway. Steady strong pulse, good colour, this must be some sort of neurological episode.

It was the long distant look in his friend's eyes which made him worry the most. Completely devoid of any emotion or life.

"Jesus." The doctor swore, he waited.

"No, seriously, you're going to have to give me some sort of notification you're actually in there, otherwise I'm going to have to start ringing for some medical help."

Nothing.

"Sherlock?"

The detectives eyes slid shut.

"Shit." John pulled his phone out from his pocket.

"Sherlock?" He asked again, this time pulling one hand of his friend's into his own and pinching the skin on the back of the detectives hand, hard.

The younger man pulled his arm back and groaned. "What are you doing?"

Despite knowing it was not his friend's fault, John could have punched him. "I'm trying to make sure you're not slipping into a coma." He said with some degree of held back annoyance. "If you could be of assistance that would be great."

Sherlock cracked one eye open, his brows furrowed tightly and he let out a small moan.

"Headache?" John offered.

The detective shut his eyes and nodded gently.

"How long?"

"Since before I fell asleep, it's worse now."

Sherlock's honesty worried the doctor, he wasn't used to this placid and well behaved personality, it was not normal. On the plus side his friend seemed to have regained his memory again.

"You've been getting these a lot haven't you?" John pressed two fingers gently onto the side of his friend's head next to the healing surgical wound. There was still some swelling under the skin, not completely unexpected but Sherlock had interfered with the wound enough times that John was still somewhat concerned about the risk of a post operative infection taking hold. Not something you wanted on your brain either, meningitis was a real concern. The detective inhaled sharply as John touched what seemed to be a tender spot.

"Sorry." The doctor apologised. "Can I please have a look at your eyes?"

"If you're going to shine that light into them then no." He replied with an acerbic tone.

"Sorry, non negotiable. Which would you prefer first, the lights in the eyes or answering my daily questions?"

"It's Friday and who even cares who the prime minister is anyway!"

"Full name." John stood, his neck crunching in protest.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He replied. "It's Friday the 2nd of October, or so the Evening standard says on the coffee table."

"That's cheating." The doctor retrieved his medical bag, never far away.

"I don't know who the prime minister is and quite frankly I don't care. The square root of 64 is 8, I'm in flat 221B Baker Street and you are John Hamish Watson. Anything else?" He huffed, keeping his eyes closed.

"What's your job?"

"I'm a consulting detective."

"What's your brothers name?"

"Mycroft." A sniffle of distaste.

"Where were you 10 days ago?"

"In hospital."

John sat on the coffee table, rummaging through his bag for the pen torch. "Name me three words beginning with S."

"Spicy, selenium, mouse."

John paused. His friend did not seem to have realised his error.

"Okay, spell potassium backwards."

"Really John, have I not answered enough stupid questions for you by now?" Sherlock brought a hand up to cup his forehead, it was throbbing now.

"Please. Humour me, just once more." John's concern ebbed at him.

"M. I. S. A. T. O. P." Sherlock frowned and and then groaned again, a wave of pain causing lights to pulse behind his closed lids. "Please can I have some pain killers now?" He exhaled and then inhaled sharply.

The doctor looked at him sadly. "Just a second and then yes, I promise." This was really not like him. "Can you move your hand so I can examine you?"

Sherlock obliged without protest, and John checked his pulse again, a little elevated this time, but easily explained by the sudden onset of a migraine on the way. He gently slid a thermometer into his friend's mouth and waited for it to beep, frowning at this slightly high number here too.

"Where is the pain?" John asked.

"Everywhere." Sherlock moaned.

"Does your neck hurt?"

"I don't know."

A small list of symptoms of slowly being compiled in the doctors head and he didn't like it. "Open your eyes for me." He asked kindly.

"Please don't." Sherlock grimaced before his friend had even started.

"I'm sorry." John said. "I just need to." He very gently pried one eyelid of the detectives up with no protest in return. He slowly shone the pen torch into it clicking it on and off. Reactive and normal, just a little sluggish. He did the second eye, suddenly noting that his friend had gone deadly still. The second pupil was as the first, both equal, both reactive, he sighed with some relief.

Sherlock did not move, his ridged body remained like a statue.

"Are you alright?"

It was then the doctor recognised the signs, pulling across the nearby bin he held it forwards as the detective bent over, heaving into it violently.

"Sorry." John said again, he bit his lip in both concern and guilt, knowing he had, at least partly caused this.

He waited patiently for his friend to stop. Sherlock pushed the bin away rolling back onto the sofa and pulled his legs up paying little heed to his metalwork around his broken bones. John cringed as it dragged through the fabric, catching as it went. Sherlock's lanky body curled inwardly so he was now on his side, horizontal on the sofa.

"John.." The detective near whispered, his voice now hoarse, "pain relief?" He asked.

"Christ it must be bad. Hang on." The doctor frowned, this was so out of character, even for current unwell Sherlock, and that it made him worry more than anything. He slowly rose to his feet and went to the kitchen. Mycroft had helpfully (as usual) had more extensive medical supplies delivered to Baker Street. John had given a list of drugs and equipment which he may be in need of during the detectives, and his own, recovery. Several injectable pain relief drugs were in it. He had not told Sherlock, and knew that he would do well to not to just yet. Considering his options he finally selected Sumatriptan, a medication to treat migraines as well as metoclopramide for nausea.

"Okay, just a couple of injections." He said, returning to the prone form of his friend with two syringes.

Sherlock did not reply.

"Hey, you with me?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

A jumbled mumble of syllables replied finally but nothing else.

"I need to give you these okay?" John bent low, slowly studying his friend's face with concern. The detectives brows were so tightly knotted together he didn't even know if it were possible for them to be this get creased. "I need to just pull your clothes back ok?" Despite being unusually placid and accommodating at the current time John knew Sherlock did not like to have human contact. Unfortunately the last few weeks there had been nothing but this for the man.

John very gently pushed Sherlock's pyjama bottom slightly back to allow access to his upper leg. When he sunk the needles into his friend's muscle the detective didn't flinch or react in any way. This was not good.

"Shit." John pulled the second empty syringe out. "I think you're starting to run a fever maybe."

A short grunt replied.

"Maybe we should start some intravenous antibiotics to be on the safe side?" John questioned himself.

"...ever." Sherlock mumbled.

John paused. He did not want to jump to conclusions, and for a moment he really questioned his clinical medical judgement. When it came to Sherlock he knew he didn't always see straight. But no, John was a good doctor, in his own words 'a very good one'. All signs, swelling around the surgical wound, elevated temperature, severe migraine, neurological signs all pointed to a potential for infection. Starting intravenous antibiotics would be safer than not doing so, and he could seek further help should Sherlock's condition deteriorate any further.

"Hey, can you talk to me?"

"Mmhf."

"Actual words would be good."

The detective didn't answer, he brought a hand up to his head and his breathing hitched to shallow short inhales before he finally let out a stifled groan of pain.

"Okay." John said. "Give it 20 minutes, if this doesn't ease then I'm getting you some stronger analgesia and getting you taken in. But for now I'm getting a line into you and starting some cefotaxime. Ideally we should be getting you into hospital and doing a lumber puncture but I don't know if I'm jumping the guns here."

Sherlock didn't answer but somewhere in his head he had processed the words John had said. By the time the doctor had collected all the equipment he needed the detective had managed to roll out of his cocoon shape and pull up his dressing gowns sleeve. Presenting his arm to his friend.

"I'm sorry." John could only think to repeat himself again. "I wish your recoveries could be a little more smooth, but you know, your not the most compliant when it comes to nursing and looking after..."

Sherlocks shaking arm raised slightly and John silenced.

"S..op, t...lin." The detective just managed to slur. His eyes opened to cracks and in the dim lighting John could see they were bloodshot and filled with nothing but agony.

'Sorry' The Doctor only mouthed, making no noise. He begrudgingly turned on a light and set to sorting his friend out. He cringed at the marred skin, an endless amount of failed IV lines, mostly due to Sherlock's unruly behaviour for pulling them out but also years of drug use had made his veins scarred and difficult to access in places. John pulled the tourniquet on and tightened it, feeling gently for a suitable site for the cannula. After a little deliberation John finally inserted and secured a line in Sherlock's lower arm, deciding to pad it out with an extra dressing. No doubt the detective would attempt to pull it out once he began to feel better.

The doctor added a fluid line and bag, deciding that some intravenous fluids would be more beneficial than not. He then sat for the next 15 minutes infusing the antibiotics in, watching his friend with medical scrutiny. He was running a fine line, any other individual would be admitted for these signs, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't any other individual. He knew, despite being terribly ill and in pain the detective would not be as amenable as he had just been to treatment. In hospital with every step forward Sherlock took there was always two steps back, a tricky patient to say the least.

By the time the antibiotics were in the detective had fallen asleep. His head turned away to shield his eyes from the light. John was pleased to see the lines of pain in his face where dissipating slowly. Analgesia hitting the spot it seemed, at least partly.

John crept up into the kitchen, pulling out his phone he hit the speed dial.

"Doctor Watson?" The familiar voice answered. "How is my brother?"

"Mmm, he's seen better days that's for sure." John replied, biting his lip and looking back to his best friend's sleeping form.

"Do you need my assistance, or do you need to have him admitted?"

"An opinion of a neurologist wouldn't go amiss." The doctor whispered, "but you know how much we want to avoid him being admitted."

"I can arrange a home visit thats no problem." Mycroft said, his flippant tone sounded like it was as easy to call on a medical specialist as it was to order a pizza. "Is there anything I should be aware of?"

"Just that he's taken a bit of a turn, we're under control but just be aware that we may need to take him into hospital."

"Understood." There was a pause. John could imagine the man schooling his worried face into one of indifference. "I will be over in a couple of hours."

"Okay." John said, surprised.

"Thank you John, for taking care of him. I know how much he tests ones patience."

With that the phone call ended. The doctor let out a small smile. 'That man has more love for his brother in him than he would care to admit.' He thought. He wished Sherlock could see it.

He poured himself a second cup of tea, pulling up a chair and his book he perched himself next to the sleeping detective, keeping a keen doctors eye on him whilst reading. With any luck the antibiotics would start doing the job.


End file.
